


Ink that Stains

by beautifullyheeled



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Soulmates, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:24:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so very much to the beautiful lovely WINTERMINDPALACE for the gorgeous cover art.</p>
<p>She truly is the best.person.ever.</p></blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Captain John Hamish Watson

 

April 2010  
Camp Bastion

John had to heal them.

They were his responsibility. These men, these brave men, had no idea how quickly he would trade his life for theirs. The firefights were hellish. The IEDs even worse. He was good though at what he did; very, very good. He had been baptized out here in sweat, grit, and blood. Shared tears and laughter at gallows humor with others who understood the finality and fragility of life. The knowledge of how much could be lost in a single twenty-four hour period was permanently engraved on his soul. 

This place, the heat, the stark beauty of this valley would never leave him. It became a part of you. For the last four and a half years he had called this home. The caramel sand that endlessly whipped through the air and settled into everything. The sudden changes in the air, the way it would both caress and create, i never ending wall of silt and death whipped up by the wind. A mingling of particles that felt ionized as the thunderstorms came. Roving, dark, terribly dark and wondrous. If lucky enough, after the wounded were sorted, he would have a moment to breath, to watch the majesty unfold in the dark horizon.

Tonight was one such night.

Pulling a cigarette, he lit it, inhaling deeply. It helped marginally. Tobey came out next bumming one from the doctor, leaning against the other side of the frame. They said nothing to one another. Nothing needed to be said. They both broke from their reality for a moment, wrapped up in the lightning that was turning the sky an angry mottled violet, as turbulent as the Captain’s emotions. He had worked on the man they had brought and was able to save his leg; well most of the function at any rate.

Finishing the last drag, he extinguished what was left of the embers and throws it into the tray. Walking over, he put his hand comfortingly on his mate’s shoulder, giving a little pressure to help ground the much younger doctor. John saw a vast amount of potential with Tobey; he would shine out here with his deft hands and quick mind. Bidding him a silent farewell, the Captain made his way to his sleeping quarters.

The thunder was wondrous.

It was just enough to knock him into another head-space and help him feel the same comfort he had always felt with a really great storm. He would need the peace to sleep tonight; tomorrow was early patrol with his group. Stopping by Sentry, he grabbed a few necessities for his pack so he would have the time to roll out and grab a swift breakfast before heading out a little past dawn.

Getting said items, he headed toward his tent, the wind ghosting along the sand picking up motes and tossing them around. It was beginning to feel electric; he could feel the charge in the air thrum through his body igniting the deep excitement within the doctor. The cloud bank was forever away, but here in this desert it did not matter. As the first strike hit, took his breath away. The bolts of pure energy were magnificent to behold out here with only the flat sand and very little artificial illumination. The captain began counting, eager to find out exactly how close it was. If he was going to be lucky enough to hear it for awhile. It took 32 seconds.

7 kilometers out or there abouts then, wonderful.

Settling into his cot, he zipped up the netting, leaving the main privacy door open to watch as lightning tore through the sky yet again.

Amazing.

John relaxed. Rolling onto his back the doctor moved both of his hands to his diaphragm, channeling his breathing into a slow deep cleansing state. The thunder reverberating through the ground, through him, letting him feel the intensity. Letting go of the day, he focused solely on the storm allowing it to sweep him up in its majesty. Meeting it full stop, he allowed it it to rule over his senses. The sheer naked force, the dissipation of the cracking ionized air feeling metallic in his mouth filling him with a glorious sense of wonder.

The doctor felt as if he were being tossed about in a choppy sea against the crags. Pulling from that sensation, he worked to calm the portrait his psyche created. At the next brilliant strike, the sea rose up magnificently cresting against the cliffs causing a veritable spray of misting color. At the thunder, the secondary laps would hit. Breathing in once again he allowed the moment to take him as he worked the visualization to calm and heal his frayed nerves.

As the storm moved on, and became faint, he opened his eyes fully relaxed. Wholly emotionally full, yet physically exhausted, the doctor curled easily to his side and grabbed his blanket, lulled to sleep from the waning storm, drifting off with distant shores in mind.

 

0942 Unknown, Kandahar

Being imbedded, especially at his age, was demanding. The doctor ran a little less than ragged on the hardest days, but not by much. Waking very early, he was able to make it to grab real food before the day ahead. Within a half hour, John was thankful for the coffee and bagel now blessedly tucked in his stomach and was jogging back in the barely pre-dawn light to his accommodations. Grabbing his pack and necessities.

At the tail end of their third hour out, he found the thrill of adrenaline keeping him almost hyper aware along the open softly greening banks. When the all too familiar tats of live fire reached them, they moved swiftly to cover. Unfortunately, one very new member was critically injured right at the onset of the firefight. John found himself moving like his favored lightning, swift and sure, to save the youth.

“Doc! We’re losing him!” one of the others yelled. John could barely hear him and honestly he did not need to. He knew the deck was stacked against this poor young man he was trying to stabilize in the middle of a firefight, trapped in a half crumbling building. It was so damaged that he didn’t even understand how it was still standing. All John could do at this point was shelter his patient with his body as the building was peppered yet again with insurgent fire. Talk to him, so he knew he was not alone in his final moments. Not afraid. 

Captain Watson said a silent prayer for the young man to have peace wherever his soul landed. He deserved to go home, not be butchered here. He should have had, just as the countless others, a life. A real life with Uni and girls or boys to bed, not this half life. And even that was being robbed from the youth in his arms. The young man stilled, gasping out his last breath just as there was a break in the onslaught that had pinned them to begin with.

“Damn them!” the Captain spat out, “Ok, move out! Go, Go!”

The team moved swiftly upon hearing the order. They were closer to the transports now, so the doctor took a moment to make sure everyone had collapsed toward the extraction point. In that moment, John realized that two of his men were still pinned. Barking at the others to head to safety he flung himself into a dead sprint to get back to the others. 

This dust-filled void from the depths of some god-forsaken nightmare could go to the fifth level of hell and sod off as far as he was concerned at this very moment. He was not going to lose one more life today, unless that life was his own.

He was so very done with this senseless violence. 

Reaching them, he saw immediately what had happened. A civilian had been caught in the firefight and injured. The doctor began working on him while one of the men called it in. It would be just a few more seconds before they would have heavier suppressive cover to move under. That was when it happened. The searing pain came out of nowhere, but the blood and flesh was definitely his. His patient was no patient at all. It was unlike anything he had ever imagined dying would be like. It was like being underwater and on fire all at the same time. 

'At least he would be in custody and somehow pay for my death.' John thought as he bled out.

Luckily for him, his team with their suppressive fire support pushed the insurgents back for just a fraction of time, just long enough to mobilize once again. Swiftly, they moved the doctor to the waiting mobile ambulance. Tobey had come onto the transport and was trying desperately to stabilize the Captain. He felt some sense of relief that the last face he would see was a close mate of his. This young bright surgeon, who could be his son, was working to save his life.  
There were far worse things one could see at their moment of death.

He prayed to the heavens, begging to live; promising to God to make his knowledge useful and to help to the fullest extent of his being if he could just remain on this earth. As the world canted and he was thrown to infinity the doctor felt swallowed in luminous darkness.

He prayed for peace.

 

It was bright out, so very bright.  
Luminous.  
Everything. Crystalline prismatic and versicolor.  
Then he was there.  
Tall, lithe, long arms comforting him.  
Voice, like fine scotch and forgotten moors urging him to knit back to himself.

Telling him about the Great Work, and Time.  
How John was still needed for so much more.  
Curling into the comforter, he sobs, feeling tired and out of sorts.

Weary. Beyond bone tired. Just wanting this.  
But that marvelous voice urges him back.  
One of the warm hands caressing over his heart holding his identification tags.

“John Hamish Watson, go to me.”

The voice implores as the light filters between them.  
Brilliant and engulfing, promising so much.  
So he listens, and goes.

 

Camp Bastion

Three days later, he was being honored as a hero in the bivouac. John had saved two of the men he worked on in the field, and the lives of the others he had sprinted to. The insurgent was now in custody, no longer a concern. Nice and neat, but not really. He felt every bit of damage. Knew how lucky he was and thankful and indebted to everyone concerned.

That bullet was meant for him. He knew it. Why else would that maniac gone for the soft tissue of his left shoulder and not his heart just a few millimeters away? Had they meant to try to capture him? It had been too perfect. Had the insurgents needed a medic? Had they thought his life slightly more valuable as a trade prospect? Whatever their reasoning, they had planned this and had been laying in wait for the right moment to get to him. Because of him, a young man had lost his life.

At least he was able to prevent losing them this time; shattered his shoulder though. Thank God he still had his arm and use of it as well as his hand still. Tobey was more than competent; he was a bloody genius surgeon. What a hell of a way to be going home, though. He was being invalided. John really did not want to leave the company, but it really wasn’t his choice. This was the third or fourth time he had thrown himself into the fray; he knew what the odds were.

The captain had known it was a gamble and would do it again in a heartbeat if it meant those men he had grown to think of as family would all make it home; breathing and alive instead of ashes on someone’s mantle. He worried that the green officer they pulled to replace him would lose more of his friends due to never having been in combat. You had to think constantly and put your life second, everyone else came first out there.

The next IED, how many could he save like this, though? It was going to be a long road in physical therapy, that’s what he had ahead of himself. He just prayed that his young mate’s name would not be added to the mental list of those known and lost in this forsaken part of hell.

John did not look forward to Skyping about this. Harry was going to go to pieces when she was told. It was bad enough on his sister already with Clara having that damn affair with Margot. Stupid really; that feckless woman. Maybe he could begin to help her, take her to an AA group. Support her a little more. At least by the time he finally got home, it would be summer, close to his birthday. They could celebrate it together.

He would be on his home soil soon, he could look forward to breathing air that wasn’t filled with silt all the time; have actual weather. This last injury cinched that part, though was not the way he would have preferred. Whole would have been a lot better.

“John, feel up to a chat?”

Tobey had shown in a very meticulously dressed man who might have been just older than John himself. He had deep mahogany hair that he kept very neat, but not militarily so, gray eyes the color of the skies over London that promised just as much danger as that same beloved city, very well taken care of body.

It looked as if there was a fair amount of strength behind the bespoke suit cleverly tailored to hide his abilities allowing others to be calmed by the richness, so they might think him softer than this man truly was. It did not fool John.

He could see this a million miles away.

“Good afternoon, Captain Watson, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”

This really got under John’s skin. Here was yet another suit coming in to interrogate him, tell him what little they deem to, and then leave with the exact same amount of information that they had to begin with. They were the ones that revealed that he was the one that the arseholes were hoping to nab this last time in the field.

“Why? I’ve already been debriefed. I know what the lay of the land is.”

“Really? Cocking his head slightly, “You do, do you?” 

The man smiled sympathetically. 

Taking the chair by John’s bedside, he sat unceremoniously, choosing to show just a little of the worry that he held on his shoulders, hoping to open the door towards a trusting discourse.

 

Sherlock Magnus Holmes

 

April 2010  
221B Baker Street

Extraordinary.

Hundred-proofed. Magnificent.

Matchless...

The cocaine running through his veins  
healing all the microcosmic fissures in his mind palace  
So much easier to connect; so vast.

Needing the bump to process more  
Process instantaneously everything  
catalogue it all now to be pulled later in a milliseconds notice…

All at his reach in the halls and chambers  
each sensation, whisper, taste, word  
each catalogued for reference in their own place  
to be recalled as swiftly as he wished.

He was the master of this domicile.  
He was mastery itself.  
Sherlock knew his framework.

He had laid it himself as a child,  
barely eleven years of age.  
Before it was all there in rows and rows  
of bureaus.

 

He was thankful for his brother  
for his quick witted idea to build  
a palace instead.

Later it became The Lattice.  
His interconnected everything.

Everywhere.

Infinite.

Time and space and earthen history.  
He felt it obtainable if he could just  
reach and go faster.

 

He would not give up this pursuit.  
No one knew this.

No one but Sherlock.  
Tripping the infinite was possible for him  
he knew it like he knew his transports steady thrum  
beneath it's ribs.

Like the flutter of the lifegiving pulse  
that fed the body.

Everything was transport.  
Flesh was meant to be burnt  
away within the brilliance.

Obtainable.

Knowledge was all.

 

Unspecified personal hangar  
England

There were very few times Mycroft called in personal favors.

Across on the other side of London, a detective and a minor government official were meeting in a private hangar. He had chosen his attire very carefully this morning. A bespoke charcoal pinstripe with similar colored shirt; the only hint of color was his sapphire tie. On his way to somewhere in a semi-official capacity, he exuded power as if the world warped around the sheer magnitude of the iron will contained within his body.

“Lestrade, so good of you,” Mycroft greeted the Inspector, “Thank you for coming.”

The silvering DI, in front of him relaxed and sure, smiled easily at the gentleman before him. Soon, very soon, the detective would be on his way to a flat in the heart of London to save his friend’s younger brother from a fairly abusive situation, if he understood the non-verbally articulated cues.

“Gregory, he needs someone who will be able to give him something to wrap his intellect about. He refused to finish multiple doctorates because he became bored with academia. He needs the thrill of the chase.”

“My, I still don’t see how on earth I’m supposed to wrangle the wanker. Dangle cases like carrots on a stick, yea?”

“Yes. If you have to do so. Whatever will stop this downward spiral. He's shooting up solely to feel and catalogue the differential between a cocaine high and what his tolerance levels are because it is an exercise that does not bore him.”

“Sweet Christ!”

“Please, Gregory. He is my brother. I've lost my wife and my father already. I do not want to bury Sherlock before his time as well.”

“Fine, but I get him clean. No more experiments of this type. If I find anything after he's clean, I'll haul his ass in on a drugs bust charge, so help me.” The silvered detective grumbled.

The government official boarded the jet, looking back and thanked the DI with a deep nod of his head, not trusting his voice, before disappearing into the confines of the plane. A few moments later, the plane taxied out of the hangar,headed toward Afghanistan.

 

221b Baker Street

Gregory waited.

The meeting with Mycroft, days ago.

He had promised to watch over this prat, so gods help him; he was going to watch after him. The DI hated taking two weeks of his vacation to deal with this, but he didn’t think that he had another option. Mrs. Hudson,the sweet landlady, had agreed to help him clean the place a bit while Sherlock was still flying, but that was days ago as well. The idiot must have shot up just before Gregory came up that first time. Damn bloody corridors of that hospital; days of worry. Mycroft was going to owe him this time.

Well, at least the kitchen was serviceable now.

Put tea on, drank it, and then waited some more. Mrs. Hudson, came up as well with sandwiches and cakes for them both to fortify their vigil. She had agreed to a sort of lock down for the sake of the young man she cared about so very much. He had finished the detox at the hospital where Mycroft suggested Gregory take Sherlock, but now the DI couldn’t get the man to calm down enough to allow himself to heal mentally.

It was bad enough, the shape he had found the younger man still in use of the illegal substances in his system, but Sherlock’s ‘friend’ had done a right amount of work on him as well. He had sworn that he would behave only if Lestrade allowed him the privacy he should normally be allowed in this one matter. He would, against his better judgement, but by god he had to figure a way to calm the drugs.

“Sherlock, I’m telling you. You need to heal. That’s what the doctor’s said. You are damned lucky that you didn’t fry yourself.”

“Stop it, Lestrade! I cannot be pulled apart and put back all in a row like normal people, you know this! I need to strengthen and push through this.” Sherlock was getting desperate now, “What about the cold case files? Anything?”

The older gentleman actually thought about this a moment. He would be able to see if Sherlock would be of any use to the force, but he could get in a hell of a lot of trouble over this. Damn Mycroft, and his superior, logical arse putting the two of them together like an American crap telly show. The two men finally had a tenuous bridge. Gregory found himself hoping that they’d be grounded in bedrock. If this young man was anything like Mycroft was, he would be an unstoppable force.

“Fine. I will start you with five cold cases. You solve them, we will go from there.”

Another four days later, Lestrade dropped him by the lab to work out some of the things he was just not capable of doing at Baker Street. The young man was turning out to be a bloody clever and indispensable new set of eyes. The DI couldn’t keep him locked away forever and he really did want to trust the young man, so he agreed. Gregory would know soon enough if Sherlock’s word was good.

Sherlock seemed to have a better handle on himself and it was just shy of the end of Lestrade’s vacation, so he wouldn’t be able to monitor him like this for very much longer. He had given his word to behave.

 

Saint Bartholomew's

Quietly, the man ascended the stairwell to his destination.

The Lab.

It was time to see how a few of his experiments turned out.  
The coolness of the handle was calming and affirming.

Smiling, the man opened the door as if it were his.  
With all the drama and will he could possibly assert.  
This was his domain.

Here, he did not have to cover with sophistry, he was his own.  
He could ruminate for hours without it seeming odd.  
There was no one here to decry his need for knowledge.

No one here that would try to bash him into  
modern 'social norms' or use petty words  
to describe his intellect or methods.

Here he was alone.  
Here was safe.

Later, at the flat, everything was frenetic.

Everywhere.

His only way of keeping track was the  
little mental breadcrumbs he left himself.  
His only companion was Billy,   
his skull he had nicked ages ago when he was in Uni.

The only one whom he could speak to with  
that didn't think him tortuous or odd.  
And his beloved violin.

It was his soul, if he had one.  
He could bare all without fear, cut with heat, torture with discordance.  
It was his voice when he had none.  
Moving here had been so tedious.  
He was glad his things had arrived from the Manor.

That mummy didn't mind the move,  
that she trusted him again.  
His family were the ones he wanted to restore faith in.  
He had worked so hard.  
So long.

The 'facility' and it's 'counselors' we all a sham.  
They were all just as flawed, one was even recreationally using while trying to counsel  
against it and get his patients 'clean'   
Rubbish.   
No, in the end, it was for them.  
And life, in all it's boring moments.

Still needed someone brilliant to see through veneers like that.  
Someone to strip away the shine to lay what was underneath bare.

So he would hunt.

Hunt those who preyed on the mostly  
unoriginal non-observant sheep that surrounded him.  
Someone needed to be like the good shepherd.  
Someone needed to keep the wolves at bay.

Who better than him?

 

7:52 pm

Later that evening, the detective shuffled through sheet music. Heneeded something to help him, calm the spiking anger, soothe his mind after the events of the day.. Filthy, nasty people that had maggots and venom they just felt they could spew on anyone.They had zero right. At least Lestrade had been able to kick his team out momentarily to allow him to help the DI.

He was so bitterly torn, needed to get it all out. Blessed in heaven, he was in despair. He didn't believe a word that was said, but he was human. He could be broken. They would never be allowed to see that, ever. He was more possessed than that. Let his words bite, his cool aloof demeanor confuse, his eyes freeze the tongues of those imbecilic troglodytes.

They had no right

Those vicious animals.

Purge.

Express.

Weep.

"Damn!"

Maybe his body needed rest.

Sherlock threw his arms into the box, pulled them back out purposely scattering the loose sheets everywhere. Sighing, he realized that the physical exertion most definitely did not release anything that he had had pent within himself. Kneeling, he began gently picking up each individual page, placing it in a stack to go with its proper arrangement.

As he stood, Sherlock put them all neatly back into their place before heading towards his shower. Stripping, he stepped in and turned the water on, indifferent to the temperature. Reaching for his body wash, he grabbed his puff and buffed his body until it was stripped pink and clean.

He needed to wash the words and their stench off his skin. He repeated the sentiment with his hair, scrubbing harshly, hoping to work his subconscious into obedience with the punishing pull of his hands in his hair. Turning it off again, he wrapped himself tightly as he shaved and finished his nightly routine.

Once everything else was completed, he scoured his hair with the towel and tossed it to the hamper. He walked toward the bed and yanked thecovers back and tried to settle his mind toward Sri Lanka and the beautiful temples he had spent time at a year previous. Reaching for the meditative state they had taught him to achieve, his goal hopefully attainable.

 

Deep in the night, he dreamed.  
Dreamed of something more, Something tangible.  
Something soothing and warm.  
Summer was coming.

He could feel the warmth,  
taste the laughter like a crisp apple,  
wrap himself in the comfort.  
Promise.

Light through the trees, sun shining down,  
him underneath the expansive canopy  
relaxed looking at the sky.  
Peaceful.

Dark and Light playing on his hand  
as he reaches out toward a honey toned hand  
splayed on the earth beside him.  
Whole.

A hand.  
Squared somewhat and smaller than his.  
Tan, golden, as if he radiated.

He.  
Male.  
Offering.

 

He was on a blanket in the meadow with Sherlock. Sussex.  
He recognized the trees on his property.

 

The blanket from the well-worn couch.  
Boots, jeans, crisp apple, jam, honey.  
Bees.  
H.H.

When he woke it was still winter; such a ridiculous dream. Product of the warmth of his covers and synapses firing. 

 

Nothing more.

It could be a millennia worse.

Yet, here he was, standing on the edge of a precipice looking only at a fathomless depths below. What he needed was light. Something to come and shine in all the corners. Pulling out his journal he began writing feverishly, trying to commit to paper before the edges started to dim.

Maybe he would get more information this time.

So he needed hope.

Hope? Home? Holmes?

H. Holmes.


	3. Chapter 3

July 2010  
440 Portland Place  
7th, 0715 

July seventh dawned bright and clear.

Today would be a better day, he knew it. Quickly cleaning up, he dressed and headed out the door to St. Bart's knowing he could not afford to be very late to meet Stamford. He was glad that Harry and he still owned this property of mum and da's. He wouldn't stay here forever, but it was nice to be able to be on his own away from people when it felt like he was becoming pressed. It shouldn't take longer than close to the end of the year hopefully with his therapy and then he'd be in the clear to start practicing again.

Those matters were for later; today was his day. Thirty Eight.

John sent a quick text off to Harry about meeting for lunch at Carluccio's if she was able to get away from the office around half one, maybe Mike would like to go as well. He would be done by then. It was good to be busy doing something even if it was to keep his mind sharp and ready. Stamford was really doing so much for John's well being. He understood the need to keep John's mind busy so he was having him go over old pathology reports from autopsies and later he would work into going to the lab and learning the new equipment.

The doctor knew he had problems.

Real ones. The damn leg, which no one could explain. His therapist believed it was psychosomatic, the limp and the small tremor in his left hand. That was the one that really bothered him. He was dominant left. There were days when he tried taking to heart the ambidexterity drills, but it only made him angry, like he had lost a part of himself. Then there were the nightmares. Those were arguably not the worst thing to come out of all his time in Afghanistan. The one small comfort he felt he had was his solitude. He could harm none, study to heal. To him it was a winning short-term scenario. His demons, they still walked with him.

John knew it. 

He did not believe he would ever truly be rid of them. 

There was something that had stained him permanently, that he knew would never leave. If he could begin to at least practice medicine again, he could help to alleviate the depth over time. He knew he would never marry or be a father. Who would want an invalidated Captain as their spouse? Hell, he didn't even know if he could keep a bed with anyone. John knew it would take time and healing; that his responses meant that he did not trust a soul to even lay their hands on his body, let alone stay over, on the off chance of him hurting someone.

Mycroft had offered him a good position. 

That position was also fairly dangerous. He had disagreed about watching over the man's younger brother. John was no one’s keeper, no matter how well he was compensated or if they might have gotten on. No, now was his time. He had been given a new direction that could potentially really help people even though it would come with no outside recognition. At least he would be in London again. Oh how he had missed the city in all its bustle and glory. No entanglements was for the better. No, John H. Watson, M.D. would remain a bachelor and that was all fine. In time, maybe he would once again live up to his military tag of “Three Continents Watson” but it would be a long while before that happened.

Saint Bartholomew's

The taxi briskly reached his destination for today. It took him a minute to right himself in the old hospital, but once he had his bearings he went straight toward the morgue and adjoining labs. He met up with Stamford on the stairwell down and they chatted amicably on their way to the laboratories.

“I honestly had no idea that 'getting settled' in mum and da's old place was going to be like this. It has helped me keep busy though. It's roomy enough I'll be able to have a study and maybe a small treatment room or lab of my own.”

“So not looking for a missus then?” Stamford wondered out loud. “I mean, you have a bit of a reputation, yea?”

“Well my reputation might be a ladies man, but this man is not yet ready for a lady! Or bloke for that matter...” The doctor laughed through his words warming the sterile feeling lab. “Actually, I’m open for pretty much any possibility I’ve found.”

“Well you were pretty open for new adventures back in the day!” Stamford chirped happily.

“What about you Stam? Any luck with Molly yet?” John said, goading his friend a bit more, “Is she as cute as you say she is? All long hair and willowy limbs?”

“Oh, Molly. Good morning!” Mike blushed hotly, immediately trying to tamp it back down offering an introduction to John in lieu of continuing that particular conversation. “Molly, this is Doctor Watson, John. Old friend.”

“Nice to meet you, John. “ Molly was indeed a very willowy woman that was just John's height. Long brown hair and very kind green eyes. John could see the mirth and curiosity in them, so pretty open too. Good on Mike. She seemed pleased to meet him, but a little on the quiet side. “Why Stamford likes to knock about down here in a pathologist’s world... at any rate it is nice.”

“So Stamford, did you want to come at half one for a birthday commiseration with my sister? You'll be done by then right, yea? Molly, would you like to come along? It's just lunch around the way.”

“Sure. You are going, right Mike?” The younger woman asked.

“I guess we all are. Well, I had better be off to class, ta!”

“We'll see you in a bit Stamford,” John replied, “Remember it is my day today so you are buying the first pint!” As the door closed behind the exiting man John turned to Molly, smiling quite charmingly.

“So, how long have you fancied my closest mate then?”

“Oh, not very long, only a few months, really.” Molly blushed furiously, bringing a knowing smile to John’s face. “He’s quite kind... sweet. Brings me coffee.”

“Really now? And why haven’t you made a move yet? He’s completely besotted you know?”

“I had no idea he was that far gone. Might use that this afternoon... if you don’t mind. I mean I do really like him.” Molly laughed and shook her head. “Let me show you around. We need to be careful around the morgue though, there’s someone coming in and he does not enjoy being interrupted.”

“Oh?”

“Well, he’s actually really nice. He’s just not good with people. Brilliant really.”

Opening the door leading to the hallway, he allowed Molly to lead him around. It was good to be back among the living, he was glad for the tentative company. They went through to her office, and then back to the original lab where they had met. 

“So, birthday?”

“I’m becoming an old man, thirty-eight this day. Thankful to see it, though.”

“Well, happy days to you then, John. Tell me what you would like to go see first? Maybe we should go to the old theater after all; I’m feeling a bit naughty.”

“Oi, shouldn’t the naughtiness be saved for my best mate?”

“Not that kind! No, but the gentleman I mentioned might be there. You might get a kick out his particular brand of violence, being a veteran and all.”

“Violence? On corpses?”

“Experiments,” Molly amended with a darkly gleeful fervor, “Come on!”

“Maybe you and Stam shouldn’t play happy families after all…”

“Oh, come on. You might enjoy meeting him, the person. Not the mad scientist. It’s your birthday and I don’t have a gift…let’s see if this will work in place of one.”

“So you are careening us headlong into a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in hopes that we hit it off?”

“Yes! Clever, this one is.”

They wound their way through the doors to the viewing window of the old surgical theater. John watched the tall gentleman through the glass, with Molly slightly gleeful by his side. John silently chuckled to himself. His friend was going to be in for a wild time with the woman he thought so meek.

“So, this him?” John was amused. 

“Yes. What do you think?” 

“Well, he knows how to use his implements in a strikingly good manner.”

“Oh, he does, for certain. His name is Sherlock. He’s single, temperamental, and has a gorgeous voice that registers something inhuman.”

“Why are you going after Stam again? If you are so keen on this one?”

“Not keen on Sherlock, no. He’s just brilliant, is all. A girl can have a crush you know; someone to dream of on lonely nights. Well, until I can get your man into my covers that is.”

“Ahh, so I’m your way in, am I Molly?” Laughing affectionately, John was really glad he had come today. “I see, the garner best mate ploy. Give best mate offering of sacrificial virgin is it?”

“Well, I wasn’t being that obvious. I can tell you though, he is something.”

Smiling in obvious glee over the abandoned pretenses of the man below as he flogged the corpse, her eyes danced then caught John’s once again.

“Could you imagine being underneath that gaze? The scrutiny. Could be marvelous.”

“Oh, woman, you are going to be the death of me.”

Carluccio's

"So then, what did you think?"

"The facility is great Stamford, really. It has come miles from our day!"

"Wait until you get a chance to go see the newer machinery we have down in one of the subs. Molly has been pining over the manuals for weeks."

"Well, that's not strictly true, Mike." Molly teased, "There are other things I pine for with the same amount of passion. You know that, you cad."

The four of them met and ate outside on the patio so they could people watch. It was a very fine day to John's mind and he was glad for it. They had so much to catch up on between Harry, Mike, and himself that even Molly was amused. Pasta, good wine, loads of bread and gorgeous desserts ruled their afternoon. He couldn't have asked for better really.

Laughter ran the table for the next two and a half hours until they all went their merry ways.

"Best birthday in years, really guys. Thank you, ta!"

John split off from the three to walk to his place. It wasn't very far away, and he was running a nice carb high he needed to walk off, birthday or no. Cutting across the way, he went down the main thoroughfare until he reached the little bakery off of Baker Street. Popping in, he ordered some of their fabulous chocolate dipped biscuits and scones for in the morning. On his way out with his parcels, he noticed the younger man he had seen in the theater earlier.

"Ta!" he called to the dark chestnut haired man.

"Yes, good day to you as well."

The doctor felt giddy and decided to be a bit flip with the younger man.

"Where's your crop?"

That stopped the younger man in his tracks. John shivered mischievously waiting for his response. Rocking back on his heels, he decided to go for broke. He'd blame the wine.

"The lividity looked as if it was going to bruise well for your experiment."

"Who are you?"

"Just a doctor. Admired your thoroughness is all. Took the chance seeing you here to tell you."

"Thank you."

Looking at him keenly for a minute, John felt as if he was being stripped to the marrow and placed back together in mere seconds.

"Neat trick that. See you around Bart's."

With that, John knew when to leave a person wanting, so he tipped his fingers in a slight salute, turned and walked the rest of the way home fairly chuffed that he had just flirted with someone that was obscenely gorgeous and had absolutely no idea how he affected others.

Good on ya, John. Home away. 

440 Portland Place

A few fleeting moments of panic, but nothing intolerable.

Later that night, John made his way home ruminating about how chipper the day had been he found himself pleasantly surprised with how well he had handled everything.

The doctor knew he would not be able to do this everyday yet, but it gave him a good idea of what he had to look forward to once he was a bit better. Walking up to his building, he unlocked the entryway to the antechamber and moved swiftly to his fifth floor flat. Unlocking his door, he entered the mostly empty place.

He had so much to do here still.

It felt cold and impersonal, it needed to be furnished with the hope he was trying so hard to foster. Crossing through the living space he turned immediately to the left into his kitchen and hit the button on his kettle before heading the rest of the way down to the hall and into his master suite. The place seemed even lonlier now that he had been in the company of people for most on the day. 

John removed his shoes; picking them up and crossed to his wardrobe where John hung his coat and placed them in the correct cubby before sitting on the favored side of his bed. Pulling his argyles and jumper off, he tossed them toward the hamper before placing his wallet and mobile in his bedside drawer he opened the drawer, dropping them beside his laptop and his Sig.

Looking forward to the heat of the unforgiving water he turned the shower on full hot and swiftly stripped, throwing the remaining clothing in the hamper as well. He intended on taking full advantage of the steaming water beating onto his body and into his aching shoulder. Grabbing his shampoo, he washed his hair one handed, letting his left relax under the ministrations of the jetted water sluicing down his back. 

The heat was finally working out some of the minor kinks he had experienced from the amount of usage today. It was tiring for the regrown muscle and sinew, but in a good way. Ached, but not bone deep, not tender; just well used. John rinsed his scalp, raking it with his short crescents of nails out of habit. Usually, he would be scrubbing at a basin trying to get grit and silt off his scalp before the dust was kicked up once again to forfeiting his actions. Now, it was just a shower, a real one and he was so very thankful for that.

Grabbing the body-wash Harry had chosen for him as part of a welcome home basket for his place, he put a quarter-size onto the flannel and began the same vigorous scrub over the rest of his skin. The warm smell of bergamot, black tea, and cinnamon flooded the shower. It felt so liberating. Oh, he had showered while in physical therapy still in Kandahar, but this was different. 

John could take his time. 

There wasn't a limit really. He could go until the hot ran empty into the faintest lukewarm. Rinsing in much the same manner, he raised the height of the spray and heated the tiles for a quick moment before resting his forearms and head against the back wall and taking the flannel back in hand.

He was already slightly aroused due to the relaxing rhythm of the water and how it cleared all thoughts except for one. Breathing the steam deeply, he slowed his heart rate and began to run his flannel just over his pubis. Making small concentric circles, he moved slowly around his half-heavy cock, paying attention to the surrounding flesh first, rolling down to cup and stimulate his testicles with the soft cloth. Breathing evenly, he worked his way to his perineum and his inner thighs enjoying the light friction before bringing his grip forward again. He moved to cup himself and softly tug downward on his semi-erect member, reveling in the way his glans shifted and was stimulated by the mild tug of his foreskin. 

 

Letting the cloth fall, John took himself in hand, skin to skin. Appreciatively moaning quietly into the moist air he held the malleable girth, massaging himself, wanting to feel the fullness not so much rigidity. Allowing his mind to wander, he finds himself pulling at the image of the man he briefly met that afternoon.

So familiar. His voice was gorgeous, even if he had unnerving acuity.

Twisting his hand from root to just where his glans began, he shuddered with the sensation indulging in the warmth of his own body. John dipped his little finger in between his foreskin, running it around his glans with every twist. The movement caused to flare in such a fine manner that it had pushed its way almost free leaving most of the fore tip exposed when the next tug rolled over fully from root over the head and back again. John focused his memory of the softly curling hair by Sherlock’s ear.

How much John would like to caress it, possibly yank. .

John smoothed his fingertips lightly over his stomach, working to his chest and finally swiping at his erect nipples, moving his hand upward to his clavicle gently squeezing at the worn shoulder. Accepting what had changed, he explored the texture of the newer flesh. The slightly circular curve of the surgical scar began 7 millimeters above his left nipple, almost like a lazy stem that terminated into the more dense traumatic scarring that bloomed much like rhododendron petals.

Darkly beautiful now, as it meant he still lived.

To possibly meet this wonderfully gorgeous younger man that was at once both brilliant and biting.

Touching himself fully, lingering in the feel of it all, John worked his fingers lazily back down his torso, flattening his palm against his inner thigh raking once again causing the tight building John knew so well. Inching his dexterous fingers, the doctor cupped his testicles, stroking with his thumb, feeling the weight. Keeping them palmed, he moved two of his fingers to his perineum pushing into the spongy tissue slowly massaging his prostate until he unraveled, spilled, and quaked. 

John was floating. Rotating back into the stream, the doctor rinsed himself gingerly before stepping out of the shower. John grabs his one item he considers a gift to himself, the deep plush white bathrobe, and shrugs into it wrapping very close to his body.

What would it be like to be under his gaze?

Just from the fleeting introduction, John knew the man would be a handful.

Carefully placing his robe at the end of the bed, the doctor curled into the soft comfort of his sheets, the deep sheltering duvet bringing slumberous thoughts. He breathed deeply to calm and even the flow of oxygen and carbon dioxide from his body. Relaxing into a slight meditative state he welled up and allowed the tears to flow freely, releasing the day’s tension his last thoughts for restfulness chase the self doubt finally conceding loss. After some time, his eyes heavily lidded, finally close and John drifted to sleep.

 

Night.

Not a star in the sky to guide him back.   
All that is there for certain is the sand beneath his bare feet. He can hear waves, distant.   
Slowly he becomes aware of a luminous ribbon in the same direction.   
Moving on sure feet he is still cautious expecting something to devour him at any moment,   
yet craving the peaceful rhythm of the cresting conductor of light that is washing on this unknown shore.

When he reaches the luminous foam he finds minute flotsam in the liquid.   
It stretches forever to either side, feeling like this is the edge of forever.   
The ambient glow coming off of the substance is truly every color all at once and strikingly beautiful.   
As John's eyes adjust he realizes on some very deep level sadness and horror.   
He is not on sand, but bone ash.   
The luminous ocean is life essence and its vehicle of deep crimson that flows in every living persons veins.   
He does not run.

He is not afraid.

 

The very tips of fingers breach the surface moving as if it is   
so very hard to break the tension until a lithe hand and wrist offer itself to John.   
This is when he panics, but he does not show it.   
He feels it, works through it, and centers himself again.

The hand seems to be irritated and again asks politely for him to accept it, so he does.

All at once he feels an unnaturally strong force all the way down through his toes and he is pulled into the blood ocean and just as quickly deposited on the other-side of the plane of liquid onto a road littered with gore.   
There is nothing to either side, just the road.

He is forced to walk on the path, knowing if he slips he will fall into far worse than an oubliette.   
Treading on visceral flesh, organs, ground up sinew, sometimes more recognizable parts   
he refuses to admit he sees. Especially when they are people he has served with, cared for, or lost.   
Finally he makes his way back to Bastion following the internal pull to him med tent.   
Pulling the door flap away, his cot is pristine. He is fully clothed, but in Arctic fatigues now.   
The only things sitting on his cot are his tags.

Hearing a whisper of movement,   
he turns 180 degrees toward the doorway   
only to see a very tall thin figure observing him   
pointing at his tags that are behind him now. 

Inching backwards, he listens to the silent advice   
and taking his tags he puts them back around his neck.

 

John awoke screaming.

“Damn. This is ridiculous.”

His heart was going to break through his sternum and fly right out of his chest. Running to his bath he barely made it, before he emptied the contents of his stomach. Sitting down, he looked at the bureau by his bed. Knowing what was in there could end the nightmares, the pain. 

The breath, which he drew freely, was finite; that he really did not want to take anymore. Not for one more second. He could stop time for himself, John was sure of it. John pulled his longing gaze from the drawer while trying to find something else to focus on.

It was in there.  
How many had he seen take their last breath?  
How utterly blank did they become?

Deciding, he stood and went to the sink to brush his teeth, as he forgot earlier anyway. Rinsing, he washed his face for good measure. Depositing his brush back into the cabinet he yanked the hand towel off of the rung. As John patted himself dry, he suddenly froze noticing the glint of metal around his neck in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. Dropping the towel instantly, he crossed swiftly to his nightstand and drew his Sig and his phone all the cloying mayhem finally dispatching. The doctor rang Stamford immediately. He did not give a hang what time it was. There was no answer.

The entirety of the dream came back to hit him full force.

No. Not possible. He couldn't have been there! This could not be happening.  
No, there is a reasonable explanation. Bloody Christ.

John refused to believe that he had just experienced a massive sleepwalking episode fueled by his trauma.

Well, he had thought about going for his weapon though. Time to get a drawer safe, at least for the time being...

John made a split second decision; he decided to ring the one man he has in his contacts that he has never spoken to in his life. The number he was given months ago by that government official. The one who tried to salary him in the most unprincipled of ways. At this very moment, he prayed that the man had been telling the truth about his brother’s talents. John was going to need someone with preternatural skills.

He had seen him today, met him briefly even, but would this be out of his scope?  
Would he understand why John was asking him to come?

He hadn’t even gotten a moment to pull the man aside to explain what his brother had asked, and now for them to have met completely out of the blue he knew it would look terribly suspicious. He could figure no way around why he trusted this man and knew that he could help so he took the instinct and rang before he could stop himself.

“Hello?” Came the smooth baritone through the mobile.

“Holmes, my name is Watson. I need you at my flat now. I can't explain.”

There is a pause of indefinite length between the two men. John can hear the intake of breath on the other side of the receiver.

“Address?”

“44 Portland Place. Will you come?”

“Be right there. Watson, have the kettle ready.”

With that the man rang off.

The doctor went through and methodically cleared all the rooms and then set the kettle back to boil, thanking the heavens it had an automatic shut off. Heading back to his bed, he slumped laying back down over the covers. John couldn't handle it anymore. He broke, sobbing, lying prone on his bed. He couldn't, didn't know how to let it all go.

I wonder if she will be mad at me, really properly angry. Maybe she would just feel sorry, understand.  
It would be so very quick.

He was so angry. So tired of feeling like his life was out of his control. The darkness that would swallow him at times was unlike anything he ever could have imagined.

Survivor’s guilt, PTSD, what the hell else was wrong with him?

Did he even have the capability to form real relationships anymore? Mike and Molly were helping, but they knew he was broken. He was just thankful that they didn’t judge or push. Let him speak if he needed to, otherwise quietly held their distance. Now, he was reaching out to a stranger for aid.

But I saved so many as well.

“I swear to Christ Almighty, you had better give me a damn good reason for not ending it!”

He also knew that there was better waiting. He had to follow the same instinct that caused him to ring Holmes. The same one that told him not to entirely trust the man’s older brother. Sitting up, he crossed his bedroom and threw his window open with a purpose. Night air. Sounds of a busy city five stories below. Life.

The question that kept forming was, could he rejoin the living?

John emptied the chamber and pulled the cartridges out of the clip then field stripped the weapon to be cleaned instead. Moving toward the closet, he took a deep breath, and went to go get his supplies.

If he wasn't going to use it for now he at least wanted to keep it in good working order for when he was ready.

Maybe taking time to view his life a little differently. Different paths; different choices.

There is always this way when I am ready…maybe soon.

 

Meetings  
2352 

Within what felt like minutes, there was a buzz for entrance.

John went over and answered, letting the stranger in. Holmes was very tall, thin but wiry framed, and had a gorgeous head of riotous deep chestnut colored softly curling hair. The man's eyes looked as changing as the Mediterranean Sea and just as deep and mysterious. The doctor figured honesty was best, no holds barred. 

There was something different about this man and he hoped that Holmes could be trusted.

“Hello, Holmes,” John showed him into the very sparse living area.

“I'm sorry; I've just moved in a few days ago and have no idea what I am doing here yet. I'll just go get our tea, one moment.”

This allowed Sherlock a brief time to catalogue everything. It was very stark. Still smelled of paint and construction. The flat had not even been lived in for years he supposed. This was more than a simple freshening up renovation; it was a complete fix-up. The long living room was bare walled with only five pieces of furniture at the far end of the room, not even curtains were hung yet.

The flat was still to-shell.

The detective made his way to one of the matched queen Anne style chairs that were a wonderfully storm cloud gray velvet that both stated comfortable and welcoming at the same time while feeling streamlined due to the choice in hue. This was the doctor. He had matched them with a deep mahogany stained table that was left empty of clutter between them while the matching footed ottomans could be seen flanking either side of the fireplace.

The chairs faced said hearth at the end of the room, so the doctor was choosing to focus on warmth. Yet Watson had not turned on the lighting in this area, instead letting the lights from the city illuminate from the two massive windows that dominated the right side of the room, allowing the banked light from his kitchen play into the living area as well. Instead of harsh electric lighting, this gave coloring to the whitish walls in muted tones and subtle mystery.

This showed a slightly artistic, possibly romantic side.

Sherlock really was interested in what reasoning this man had in calling him of all people up to his not-even-full-moved-in flat. The space was older, as everything was in central London. Recently renovated to modern plaster and cabinets as well as all new dark-wood floors. All still white, unclaimed, unused.

Too sterile for the man who invited him in.  
No, this man was passionate.

Look at the one color choice he had made for the items that would be getting the most use. John was a doctor, he cared for people and he had yet to light one evening fire just to feel the glow? The man was used to much warmer climates than London in July. Choosing the chair on the left, he deferred to the doctor's dominate hand, settled himself, and began to think.

Two minutes later John was back with the set-up.

“Holmes, I am sorry for calling in the absolute middle of the night to ask for a stranger's help, but I am at my wit’s end. I believe I am haunted.”

Sherlock could read John Hamish Watson.

'Thirty seven,' no he corrected himself, 'thirty eight today.'

Army. Doctor. Very professional.  
Not married or otherwise seeking company of a romantic sort.  
Amended; possibility later.  
This flat though, spoke of a wish for family possibly.  
Very large for just a bachelor.

“I do not normally come out at a person's insistence, but I was curious as to how you have received my mobile number and why you felt you could contact me in a moment of vulnerability?”

Awoke in a personally violent manner and that he still had a slight tremor to his left hand because of it.

'What would shake a man with such steel nerves?' Sherlock was determined to find out.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Did you really just ask me that?” John was shocked. Well and truly.

“Yes, doctor, I did.”

“How on earth did you know?”

“The same way that I know that you are left handed.”

Sherlock wondered momentarily at how the cosmos had aligned. How he had met someone twice in one day that was as interesting and fanciful; that he this terribly haunted, deep soul, gifted to him. The consulting detective decided to pull out all the stops, to dazzle the doctor so he could go back on his way into the depth of London's nightlife before he became enamored with the enigma before him.

He gave his patent sweet-speaking-to-a-client smile then launched into his explanation. It was all about tan lines, hairstyle, weathering on his hands, even the way he held himself seated. Sherlock decided in those moments that he would extract information from this unassuming gentleman before him; possibly help him if he could.

Yes, this could be dangerous.

He hadn't ever swam to the depths he believed John had waiting for him to explore, but he could not turn away. This was more than dangerous. This was uncharted.

“So, Doctor, you are clearly just home from service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap now was it?”

“No, ta! Not the way you've just explained it! You were brilliant.”The doctor stated softly, and then reiterated looking straight into Sherlock's eyes.

“Just brilliant.”

“You are aware that you are saying that out loud aren't you?”

“Yes. And I don't care.”

No, something was distinctly unsettled about this entire picture.

“So, here you are, Watson, in your new flat, and calling a stranger in the middle of the night for help?”

Sherlock smiled in an off-handed sort of way, as he sipped the warm tea It was some what interesting at this juncture at the very least. Maybe he would have a little fun trying to unravel this mystery.

“That doesn't seem like you at all.” He pressed again into the hushed room.

“You are right, it is very unlike me,” The doctor gathered the rest of his thoughts while visibly steeling himself. “I helped a man that holds a specialized position while I was deployed. He sort-of owed me, or felt that he did, for reasons I do not care to discuss. Knowing I would be back home soon, he offered me your number. In hopes we might befriend one another, I believe.”

“Mycroft.” This revelation was more than slightly interesting. His brother owing an army surgeon was something he definitely wanted to get down to the bottom of.

“Just so.” John answered, “I can see you thinking in there. No, not right now, maybe if I have to I will give you an explanation. Right now, I have a much more pressing problem.”

With that, John shifted forward in the comfortable high-back chair, placing his tea onto the small round table between them before resting his elbows on his knees and breathing deeply. “What I mentioned before, I believe I am haunted.”

“Well, if you have your answer, then why did you ring me?” Sherlock queried trying to move the other man along infinitesimally.

“I had a nightmare tonight. It was not a normal nightmare, more like a bad acid trip. When I awoke, these were around my neck.” At that moment John pulled his tags out before continuing, “You have to understand when I say this is not possible.”

This got Sherlock's full, immediate attention.

“Explain.”

“Well you see, I went to bed with no one. I keep them in a drawer on the opposite side of my bed. In a hidden compartment. I went to bed tonight without them, and woke up with them on.”

The detective took a moment to take in the doctor's exact words. They were very precise, skipping over the long drawn-out process most people possess. He could tell that this man was telling the truth.

“Does anyone else in your life know this? That you no longer wear your tags. That you even have a hidden compartment?”

'Interesting, might be enjoyable after all.' His brother was full of surprises tonight, 'This must have been a way to either insert someone to spy, or he thought we two could benefit from one another.'

“No. I've only just purchased the minimal amount of furnishings. Every piece is new to me.”

“So your bed suite is antique, then?”

“Yes, just as the chairs we currently sit upon. I had them stripped of the old horse hair interiors, re-stuffed and upholstered. The pieces all came from the same storage actually. All of the furnishings coming in are as well. Dining, chaise, daybed, all of my office. It just seemed right.”

“Interesting...do you know where they originally came from?”

“I'm sure it is on the paperwork, why?”

“Just a theory, would you mind showing me to your room?”

In reality, it was more than that actually. Sherlock felt like he knew this furniture.

“So you may get a visual of the room and movement, yea? Right this way, Holmes.”

John showed him unceremoniously through the hall past the kitchen to his bedroom. Opening the door, allowing Sherlock to go before him, he remained at the doorway for a breath before turning and going to grab his tea intending on refreshing it allowing Sherlock the room and quiet to do whatever it was that he did to be able to catalogue spaces and information the way he did.

“You may stay in here John, you will not bother me.”

“It's not an intrusion. I'm just going to get my tea.” Turning around again to face the detective, he canted his head and looked quizzically towards Sherlock, “You just called me by my Christian name.” 

“Yes. Problem?” Sherlock felt as if, once again, he was just missing something. “If it is too personal, I could call you doctor, or Watson.” He felt as if he pushed against an invisible barrier. This is why he loathed social interaction. It was as bad as a minefield at times.

“No, no. It's all fine.” John responded. “Just surprised is all. But it's good. You are in my bedroom after all might as well be on a first name basis, yea?” The doctor moved quietly away down the hall towards the living-room and his tea.

Sherlock took in the bedchamber. It was nicely appointed. The damask on the walls followed the same stormy themes in charcoal and graphite tones. The double bed, a wonderfully old Victorian revival that was high backed wrought iron with a lovely dual infinity with looping scrolls interwoven on both the headboard and footboard. It had to be a one of a kind piece. The lead paint had been stripped off leaving the iron to be resealed clear.

The bedding John had chosen, a deep cerulean blue with a secondary damask pattern in dark slate with cream sheets. The area rug was so large that it ran under the bed three feet to either side or two at the foot underneath the bench at the end of the bed. Custom once again. It was deep pile shag almost the same color value as the cream colored sheets; it was a nice offset once again to the dark floors and walls.

A deep dark stained set of bedside tables flanked the iron bed, their matched wooden dresser stood underneath the large window holding on the surface John's docking butler and mail sorter combo on the left corner followed by a large natural looking wild fuchsia and white rose bouquet on the right balancing the room out to perfection.

'John was a sensualist.' Sherlock just knew it. ‘The first room to have done. This was hopeful, deep, feeling. No curtains yet again. He liked to watch life all around him.'

“So why the nightmares, John?”

Sherlock could sense the doctor's weighted gaze in between his shoulder blades now that his focus had come back to include other things besides just his observational self. The detective was thankful the doctor had waited not only patiently, but quietly, while Sherlock took everything in.

“PTSD. Still not an answer about how the tags wound up around my neck then?”

“Unfortunately, no. It does appear that you have been the only person in the room, and it also seems as the drawer you mentioned had not been opened by anyone. Including you. Still very highly polished, no fingerprints or smudges. I am sorry; I have no real answers for you at this time.”

Looking down, the doctor was a bit disappointed. He had hoped the detective would have told him outright that he was being a silly git, but it didn't seem like Holmes was disputing a haunting either.

“This does not mean I would not like to pursue this...it intrigues me. May I stay tomorrow night to see if it occurs again? I rarely sleep, and if there is something out of the ordinary, I'd like to document it. For now though, if you are awake would you like to accompany me for a bite? I know this lovely Italian place that stays open until half three.”

John pondered going out for the meal. It really wasn’t all that late being midnight. If Sherlock did not sleep regular hours, he might be shifted slightly where food is concerned as well. It really was the least he could do to pay the man back for coming to a stranger's home in the middle of the night and Holmes really did look like he could stand a bite in all honesty.

“Alright then. Off you pop. I'll get clothes on and be right out.”

Giving himself a few moments of privacy was probably a good thing. He felt very comfortable around Sherlock, which was a change. Mulling it over as he chose his clothing carefully, he decided that he liked the comfortability. As he was throwing on his jeans his mobile chimed notifying him of a text.

Walking over to the dresser, he swiped the mobile to see who it was.

You don’t seem very afraid. -M

The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?-M

You don’t seem very frightening. Neither does your brother. -JW

Stopping a moment, he throws on a warm white long sleeve undershirt and his cobalt blue cashmere jumper. While pulling on his argyles, his phone chimed again.

How many ‘friends’ do you imagine he has? -M

He does love to be dramatic. -M

Well, thank God you’re above all that. -JW

Putting his shoes on, he shoved the mobile in his pocket and headed back through his hall and into the living-room stopping at the coat tree to grab his woolen black jacket with the leathered elbows and shoulder.

“Ready, yea?”

Looking expectantly at Sherlock, he decided to let his guard down just a bit and offered a genuine, if tentative, smile. He hoped that it feel awkward to the younger man, as they both seemed to have a harder time expressing things outwardly.

“Yes, John, shall we go?”

“Ready when you are, Sherlock.”

 

Angelo’s

Walking the two blocks to Angelo's was nice.

It was crisp, with a light misting rain that seemed to play in the air. John felt alive and engaged with the full conversation that he and Sherlock were sharing on decomposition rates in rivers that were spring fed versus ones with salinity. They were so animated that the owner assumed they were on a date, much to the amusement of both of the gentlemen. John tried to rebuff Angelo, but the older gentleman still came back with a candle and a wink for John nonetheless.

The doctor actually thought this might be a good segue, so on impulse after ordering what Angelo had suggested and a good wine to pair it with he decided to work it into their already winding conversation. Yet again, Sherlock did not disappoint the doctor when, during dinner he gave him the perfect opening.

“So then, what do real people have, then, in their ‘real lives’?”

“I don't know girlfriends, mates they go to the pub with, boyfriends maybe.”

“See, John, that is what I was saying; dull.”

“Well you don't seem to be having that dull of a time on our 'date'.” John laughed poking at the detective verbally trying to gauge what was safe to ask or mention.

“Yes, well I have found this 'date' illuminating.” Sherlock teased back pointedly looking at the candle that Angelo had promised would make their table more romantic.

“I'm sure Angelo will be pleased.”John sobered some, even though mirth remained in his eyes. “So, you don't have a girlfriend then?”

Sherlock looked at John pointedly now, “Not my area.”

'Oh. Oh!' John thought and decided to press a bit. “Boyfriend then? Which is fine by the way.”

“I know it’s fine.” Sherlock sniffed.

Feeling a bit crestfallen, John was still happy for his new friend.

“Well, he is certainly lucky to have someone as brilliant as you for a partner.”

“John, I don't have a boyfriend either. I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any...”

“No. It's fine. It's all fine Sherlock.” Giving the detective a warm comfortable smile trying to convey his sincerity, “I know we've barely just met. It's all good.”

Sherlock was relieved and possibly elated in the same heartbeat. This was why he hated emotions, they were so very hard to unravel at times. He most definitely was enjoying the doctor’s company, which was very rare, as he could hardly stand what constituted a normal conversation. With John though, they had so many different avenues they could explore, already had. From decomposition, to Tennyson, to why the Thames held so much mystery, to music and playing. Christ, John played as well, and a viola no less. 

“So, you enjoy playing then? Up to speed since you have been home?”

“Unfortunately,” John grimaced at this, “I was shot through. My left shoulder. I have no clear idea of the range I will have now.” Looking slightly crestfallen he sighed. Looking back up to Sherlock, the detective could see the minute amount of remorse and hear the pain in the doctor's voice at his admission. He had to fix that. Give this man back something for his unjustified pain.

“Well, tomorrow night, I could bring my violin. We could work on scales and building up your stamina once again if you would like. Might help you work some of the PTSD out by giving you something else to focus on.”

“Amazing!” John really had warmed to Sherlock over dinner and now this. “Yes, I would like that. I’ll be bollocks at first, you do realize? I have no real idea what the extent of the nerve or radial damage is in these terms.”

“John, it's all fine.” Sherlock gave a rare genuine smile back. Emptying his glass, he made a motion for John to finish his as he stood to go speak to the owner before they left. A few seconds later, John joined the both of them thanking Angelo once again for the wonderful hospitality and full stomach. Before long, they were heading out into the very late night air.

“So you live off of Baker then?” The doctor asked when they headed back toward his flat as it was closer in proximity that Sherlock's place.

“Yes, I do. Convenient actually.”

“How is that convenient?” John mused.

“It is closer to you.” Looking over at John, he gave a small look of acceptance.

“Well, I guess so. It was for tonight’s purposes at any rate.”

John and Sherlock were hovering at the ground level of John's flat. The doctor thanked Sherlock once again for coming by and for dinner. It was amazing how much this felt like the soft end of a first date, not just a grounded tentative friendship.

Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the warmth radiating of the tall detective. John did not know, and as he weighed what could happen John decided to take a chance.

Taking a half step forward, the doctor tipped slightly on his toes, keeping eye contact with the much taller man before him. Putting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder to steady himself, John registered the curiosity shining back at him then gently brushed Sherlock's lips with a chaste kiss before lowering back down to his heels.

“Thank you for tonight. You've helped so much more than I think you know.”

“So no invite back up for tea then?” Sherlock cocked his eyebrow in jest. “No nightcap?” This banter was so much more cerebral, it was actually enjoyable. “Go in John, try to sleep. Text me if you wake again if you need though, alright?”

“Alright, fair enough good sir. I will see you tomorrow evening then?”

It was now Sherlock's turn to reciprocate. Letting his mind follow the path already set he returned the kiss to John, a slight tenderness to it, before letting go again. “Yes. Tomorrow. It's a date.”

John made his way upstairs to his flat. He was both elated and content with their evening. He’d met a marvelous friend, who just happened to be able to kiss wonderfully, as well. It was interesting and new. Gave him something to look forward to where he had, in reality, very little to imagine in his future. Now he had one Sherlock Holmes; madman with an absolutely brilliant mind and body that was causing a very instantaneous reaction.

The doctor smiled as he hung his coat and made his way to his bedroom to get ready for bed once again. Sitting on the bench, he was in the middle of taking his shoes off when he received the alert.

Thank you – SH

John chuckled softly and smiled.

The same could be said to you. – JW

Sleep well – SH

Standing, he stripped and placed his clothes in the hamper. Grabbing his pajamas from earlier, he re-dressed, finished his nightly routine, and slid into the comfort of his bedding. Closing his heavy lidded eyes, the doctor finally drifted off with promise in his heart.

 

Firefight.

No. Bomb.

Fuck...Don't die on me.

We have this, I have you.

They are almost here...hold on...

he tried desperately to work on the young man, staunch the blood flow.

It was too heavy. Too fast.

Then he heard it.

The fear...

FUCK...

All he could do was comfort those last few seconds...

keep trying to work on him...

not lose him...

I just found him...

 

"Fucking damn it to bloody hell!"

John expelled with as much breath that had caught in his lungs at the sound. Jumping up so quickly had upset his chair as well as his nerves. Damn nightmares, just one more reminder; like his limp. Like the tremors. He would never be whole again. Deep in his wool gathering, he was startled by the kettle going off. He was even more upset by the fact that he’d gone and turned it on without even knowing he had done so.

This was utterly ridiculous.

John had made a promise to himself though; soon his annual would come up. If the therapist decided to not free him back to be productive he had promised himself no more, but he had never factored in meeting somebody. John really enjoyed Sherlock’s company, there was no doubt. Was that enough though? He was a man nine years his younger and very brilliant. Gorgeous. He would like to see how this might play out. Captain John Watson was not a person who gave in to a fight.

Ever.

"Am I?" He wondered again, "If I cannot be productive, then do I really have a life? Something more than just converting oxygen to carbon dioxide?"

A hot shower and his morning routine. That would help. He could do this. John was a Watson. He had to get his act together. A hard frown set in his face, John became resolute. He could do this; needed to move forward. He was not a coward.

"Not going to back down, not now, not ever."

He spoke into the quiet space, hoping by voicing, it would come into being.

“I am better than the dark.”

 

Regent’s Park

The doctor was enjoying the crisp air.

The sun was bright, and honestly speaking, the park was becoming quite beautiful. John was glad he had chosen this path today. Walking along, he watched the landscape that seemed to still teem with life.

“John!”

Damn, bloody hell, someone recognized him.

“Ta! Afternoon!”

He tried to bring some of the cheer that he felt to his face. He had to use his cane today of all days. Turning around, he was met by the quizzical gaze of no one other than Sherlock.

Terrific!

“Afternoon! I was going to be heading to your place soon. We should grab takeaway then head right over since we are both free.”

“How do you do that?” John was yet again amazed at his new friend.

“Observation. Most people see, they do not observe. So, Thai sound good?”

“Marvelous.”

They walked in amicable silence until Baker. Sherlock extended his arm and placed his hand firmly in a possessive manner on John’s lower back as they crossed the street, lowering it to clasp the doctor’s hand as he opened the main door to his residence.

“John, welcome to Baker Street. My landlady is just here at the base of the stairs, we are this way.” Pointing up the short flight, looking back at him he smiles. “Would you like to come up while I gather my things?”

“If it’s not a bother,” he returned politely. “Thank you for inviting me in.”

 

The two went up, the younger man just in front of John and opened the door to his flat with a flourish. Stepping in, he removed his great coat and took the doctor’s as well. Looking around John was astounded at the level of organized chaos in front of him. He could immediately pick up that everything was somehow sorted, even though he was not sure how.

“Sherlock, that’s a real skull.”

“Yes, he’s my friend. Well…not as in Horatio, more like Yorick.” 

“Well, ok then.” John puzzled for a second before it hit him. “So you didn’t know the person, but you use it to comfort you? To talk to?”

“Yes! Precisely. So much more than average you are John, so much more.” With that he whirled close to him and grabbed the doctor in his long wiry arms. “So very, very much.”  
Leaning down, he kissed John sweetly, yet it had definite heat behind it. Pulling away just enough to speak, he smiled.

“You are Summer, John. Born in the summer, its heat having permanently kissed your skin golden.” Leaning in once more, he kissed him deeply, and then let him free immediately gathering his leather shoulder bag and case slinging them both over his body. “Let’s be off, shall we?”

“Certainly, Puck.” It had left John dazed, but thrilled and centered again. How was he ever going to handle this precocious man-child? 

“Hmm, yes I can see the similarities I suppose.”

Grabbing John’s hand they were off once more into the now early evening air.

John’s dinner mostly finished, Sherlock’s barely touched, they sat companionably finishing off the wine. It seemed so comfortable, so very normal it unhinged John a tad. What was it that caused this level of friendliness in twenty four hours?

“I can hear you thinking John.”

“I’m sorry just ruminating a bit. Ready to get on?”

“Well, you did just feed me and give me excellent wine; I suppose some payment is in order.” The detective said with no small amount of mischief in his eyes. Standing, he went around to the back of the chair where the doctor sat. Pulling on John’s jumper, the detective pulled it up and off then placed it on the end of the table. “Let me warm your shoulder, it will help.”

John glanced backwards at the detective and smiled.

“Alright. Be aware though that scar tissue is much different than normal tissue. I really appreciate it.” Leaning back into Sherlock’s hands he accepted the help to loosen the tight tissue. Manipulating his rotator cuff slowly by hand, Sherlock could feel it hitch even though John did not seem to notice.

Realizing it might make it hard for John to play for an extended amount of time, he felt for his new friend. Maybe he would see if there was a good therapist who could help privately. He knew it was working as the doctor began to lose some of the tension in the knotted muscle underneath.

Definitely a private therapist, Sherlock would see to it.

When both sides had been sufficiently loosened, John went and got his case out of the closet in the centermost bedroom that would soon be his office. He had already planned for tonight and earlier in the day, before his appointment, purchased two very nice travel stands that would go to a good standing height.

Bringing the items out, he handed the cylindrical travel satchel with the vivid blue bow to Sherlock. Smiling widely, John placed his own on the floor before sitting himself on the hardwood and getting to work unpacking his own.

“Just wanted to thank you for trying this with me. I may be horrid right now, I honestly have no clue. I hope you like it.”

John kept his hands busy assembling his own stand. It was a really beautiful for a travel, all black and sleek. The music rest had been ornately laser cut to resemble an old iron work, but was practically air light and completely folded in on itself, legs and all. Even the center post collapsed on itself.

“Sherlock?” The doctor, noticing that Sherlock’s feet had not moved, looked up at the younger man, “Everything ok?”

“Yes, fine. Thank you, John.”

“I did not know if you had one, and I figured even if you did, then you could leave this one here for when we play if you’d like. One less thing to bring, yea?”

Sitting beside John, he began undoing and putting his together as well. This day was full of surprises it seemed. He had a moment to process and found himself content for the first time in a very long time. Not quiet, never that, but a steady thrum. They both stood back up and tuned to Sherlock’s violin.

“Ready doctor? Do you know Duo in G major? Simplistic, but should be a marvelous piece for you to start out with again.” Pulling out the sheet music for them both, his more for show, and laid them on their stands. “We’ll start with just the first movement for tonight.”

“Yes. Right.” John simply replied. “Well... start off then?”

Sherlock counted out a full measure then began the piece, one measure later John joined him. He would echo and bolster; take the secondary harmony, then Sherlock would take primary lead again. Running through the arcs, syncing together, and then pulling away to meet up a few measures later. He knew Sherlock was tempering the pace, but it had been so long he was thankful.

Then it began.

Sherlock lips quipped up just a minute amount, enough of a tell for John to see he was in trouble. He started to pick up the tempo just enough that a slight sheen was breaking over John. He reveled in it, the breathlessness of getting lost in a piece, no matter how technically simple. He had always enjoyed playing around forcing the edges of the music anyway. So he ran with the young madman driving toward the end of the first.

When he became the secondary, he drove with technical precision until handing it back to Sherlock, who finished with a flourish. Putting their bows down, John placed his well-loved viola on his chair and then strode with a purpose to the beautiful soul baring man.

“You were marvelous.”

That was where Sherlock allowed others to see his passion then. All restraint until he allowed everything to be loosed when transported during play. Taking Sherlock’s left hand in his he raised the pinking fingertips to his mouth. They tasted slightly salty and metallic; he could smell the rosin still in the air mix with them.

It was driving John mad.

“I don’t know what to do from here; I don’t know what you want.” Delicately taking the violin and bow from his right hand, he reverently laid it in the chair right beside Sherlock’s hip never letting go of the other hand. Kissing each pad in turn, he kept his eyes on the man before him riveting to the ground. “Tell me, Sherlock.”

“Your room? This?”

The doctor chuckled throatily, understanding the feeling. They were just beginning to know each other; did they really want this now? Did they want to wait? The simmer had been there, but the detectives impassioned playing and needling had driven John to a musically induced state.

“My room.”

John moved slightly ahead, when they entered the room, he took Sherlock’s hand and led him to the bed without drawing the covers. Kneeing up onto the bed beside him, he crawled behind the younger man and encouraged him fully onto the mattress. Once he was to John’s liking, he flipped back over to his side of the bed.

“Snogging, yes,” Taking Sherlock’s lips and claiming them, they kissed sweetly. “Whatever petting is fine, just not the rest off the bat like this yea? Unless you need it as badly as I do.”

Sherlock thought about their options, he could drive John to the point of insanity, conquer him easily really. He realized he did not want that. He would be fine with whatever John was willing to give tonight, and he was willing to give everything to the smaller man if asked.

“I am agreeable with waiting, as long as you are.” Joining into the control of their lips, Sherlock dipped into his mouth, enjoying the small gasp from the man beside him. Their hands became busy. It became a game, wherein only the skin that was already showing was theirs to touch. Running fingers over soft material to feel the flexing underneath was driving them both mad.

As John attacked his neck in a very pleasing manner he was struck with an idea. Running his willowy fingers down to John’s hand that was firmly holding onto Sherlock’s hip, he grazed just inside the cuff at the wrist. John growled, took Sherlock’s earlobe into his mouth and bit just enough with his canines, causing the younger man to buck into him in surprise.

Deep chuckle again. Warm hum. Soft murmurs. They made their own language of breaths and movements. Want being driven out and being replaced with a deep seated need and understanding that soon, they would be together. Sherlock pushed slightly at the man who trusted him without reason, partially pinning him. Gently kissing John’s neck, he moved his hand and locked the doctors left hip as well. Rolling his hips against the sun-kissed man beneath him causing him to start to spin.

“John.”

His voice had dropped almost an octave if that was even possible. Asking and commanding at the same time, John immediately relented and ground back while reaching for his lover’s mouth. Joining Sherlock’s hand on his hip, the other one winding into the detectives hair extending the kiss into something earth moving. One giving as much as the other.

“Let go,” He breathed against John’s bruised lips.

It warred momentarily inside John, to let go. He was the healer, he took care of others, but when Sherlock dipped again it was too much. It had been too long since he felt cared for like this. This was not a quick go fueled by adrenaline in a war zone. This was just John and just Sherlock, getting to know the beginning boundaries of themselves. The orgasm was swift, but sweet, just as their exploration had been.

They continued kissing and loving until they brought Sherlock to crest as well. Even that did not stop the touching and soft words while quietly laughing whispering long into the night. John sat up and grabbed the duvet, covering them.

“John, little spoon.”

Sherlock ruffled his hair and continued to hold the man in his arms until they both fell into a quiet slumber.


	4. Chapter 4

Portland Place

“Sherlock,” John stated with all the gravity he suddenly felt, “be mine.” 

His eyes had already shuttered so he could dwell on the detective in his fantasy. He had come, as planned that evening, but it was cooler out, and he was dressed more toward the Victorian era but that was just as wonderful if not more so. Putting his case and leather sheet music case down he went immediately to John, took the shorter gentleman’s face in his callused palms and kissed him roughly as if he hadn't touched him in ages.

The need propelled them instantly to the ground and the deep Persian rug below their feet. John could hardly keep up with the fervent acts of undoing their stays, kicking their trousers down, sliding Sherlock's shoe off with his feet. It was a tangled mess of limbs and thrashing. It was glorious. His lover's hair was all wild and becoming tufted madly from John's insistent hands in his slightly shortened hair.

“I've missed you, my Watson. It is I who shall claim you this time. Far too long my dearest Captain.”

With that Sherlock snaked an arm in-between John's waist and the carpet firmly grasping the opposite hip. Raising he yanked at the same time causing the doctor to flip like a fish in the fry while John giggled uncontrollably. He mock tried to pull away from his lover knowing that the detective would play along.

“Oh, no you don't dear doctor, I've won this round.”

Sherlock yanked furiously on John's undergarment; dipping down and ran the flat of his tongue lasciviously across the doctor's testicles, cupping them slightly, before running the rest of the way past his perineum across his anus. Licking and biting around the muscle caused John to cry out in adoration as the pleasure was momentous. The detective wasted no time upon the utterance to insert two of his fingers quickly while biting one of John's over sensitized buttocks to force a pleasurable squeal from the dear man below him.

“Oh, my fucking Christ, Sherlock!”

“Yes, fucking love. No Christ unless you die, which would make me very mournful.”

“Sherlock, I love you.” 

His lover behind him, dragged his other hand up the doctor's back roughly, holding on as if it were a lifeline. The detective's hand trembled momentarily. John picked up on the tremor, bent his head and kissed the callused fingers gripping him, grounding him in this moment. 

John reached, clasping his lover's hand on his shoulder. “Missed you so.”

“My Hamish.” Pulling his digits out, Sherlock sweetly caressed the man beneath him as he slowly entered, thrusting shallowly at first until he could no longer sustain the endearing ministrations. Deeply he charged plundering his lover writhing underneath him. Murmuring words swathed in comfort and quietly budding joy in hopes of assuaging the depths so unfathomable surrounding the two. If by audibly cantering would knit them closer to one another. Reaching around, giving a strong supporting arm beneath his lover, the detective held him close.

“As have I, my Watson, aeons worth.” Busily traversing the plane of firm muscle of his beloved's abdomen his hand came to lightly rest at John's heart before firmly pressing, languidly bringing him up until his back was digging into Sherlock's chest.“Oh, Hamish, so persistently ephemeral to me.”

“Your heart, beneath my hand, do you feel mine as well, Hamish, beating viciously for you?” Settling them into an arduous unhurried pace, holding John's heart reveling in the sprinting rhythm. Bringing his other hand to task clasping his lover gently stroking and kneading the taut erection, he busied his mouth lightly licking the shell of his lover's ear continuing to lull John with his impassioned whispers.

Feeling him begin to contract, he knew his lover was close so he leaned them both back supporting John allowing him to have more freedom of movement to peak under Sherlock's practiced ministrations.

“So very close, je' taim. Loose for me. I must feel you give.”

“Sherlock, now.” 

John growled from a place deep within himself welling and spilling over. Tensing around Sherlock's cock riding the detective's cresting orgasm, neither of them caring about the rug burn on their knees, or in John's case his cheek and chest from the beginning of their endeavor. Sated they held wrapped in their own space for minutes until their breathing evened still joined. Sherlock pushed with his chest toward the floor to rest them both.

Flopping unceremoniously onto the carpet they burst into laughter.

“Holmes, you'll be the death of me one day.”

“No, my Hamish, never.” Sherlock covered him with his body and reverently kissed him on his forehead. Placing his favorite vermillion velvet pillow under his beloved's head he ruffled the doctors hair mischievously. “Rest now, I'll make the tea.”

 

Awakenings  
8, Jul 2010

Forty minutes later, he awoke to a massive shock.

Sherlock was in his room trying to wake him with something about a case, he felt completely ravaged, and was completely in love with the man who had stayed in his flat most of the previous night; obviously picking the lock to get back in.

“It's ok John, I'll start the tea. Then I will help you out of the bed, yea?”

“But Sherlock, you told me you were starting the tea, ah, forty-two minutes ago. Did you bring me into the room off the carpet?”

This made the detective stop in his tracks and turn around, showing nothing, but wary concern on his face. There was something very not right. Quickly taking stock of John's bedroom, everything seemed in place. Putting it in the category 'to be sorted' he centered himself and looked again at the man that was comfortably ensconced in his own bed.

There was a slightly feral scent, some undertone he had not categorized yet.  
Scuffing on John's cheek, that hadn't been there last night.  
His shoulder too.

“John, are you alright?”

“Yes, perfect love.”

“Love?” Sherlock internally registered shock at the usage.

Too familiar.

Made issue with his all too sudden erratic heart. He had to concentrate.

“John let me look you over alright?”

“Yes, if you must. Wanting to see if I am 'ravaged' enough then, yea?”

The doctor just chuckled deeply, shook his head, and welcomed the detective with a warm smile that shamed the sun they orbited around. He had never felt so secure or trusting as how he felt for the man standing by his bedside. This was why he was saved, to meet his soul mate, one Sherlock Holmes. He knew that now, irrecoverably.

“I have basic medical training. I just want to make sure you aren't hurt alright?”

Sherlock pulled the covers back slowly, he had already cataloged the slight pinking of John's left cheek and jaw, but as he brought the cover down his eyes became stormy and unreadable. Someone had very well used John. His body was roughed up with the pinking continuing on the scar and pectoral muscle on his left side, bruising on his hips to the point he could make out the fingertips, and his knees. God, they were so used it made the detective blush.

“Admiring your handiwork dearest?”

Sherlock was rapidly correcting and diagnosing the abrasions, the well loved, no used body of John Watson. This could not be accurate. Anger rapidly rising in his chest for his new friend, he worried over the words John had been speaking to him.

“John, do you believe we, we were intimate?”

“Yes. And you were wonderful my love, very good.”

Sherlock was obviously confused and this began to worry John, but it felt correct. They had been together. He could still taste him, smell him. Reaching out, John cupped the detective’s face lightly wishing he could wipe the soft confusion away.

“Tell me what happened, please. I want to make sure you were not drugged and assaulted.”

The doctor could not believe what he was hearing, he was beginning to panic, but again, there was the sense of rightness. John knew to his core they had been together.

“Alright. You came over yesterday night as we. It was so touching. We drifted off for a bit, then you woke me while leaving the bed. You were so beautiful, but different; rougher, a bit of stubble and a little more wild. We wound up making love and then it got pretty heated. It was magnificent, lover. You must believe me.”

“What is the date John?”

“It's the ninth, I would assume since you were here in my home last night...”

“What do you remember before last night? About yesterday?”

“It's not important. This, this between us, is.”

“You are correct.” Sherlock decided to change tactics as he could read that John believed wholeheartedly that he was telling the truth. “I'm going to get our tea and be right back, you stay comfortable alright?”

With that Sherlock calmly left the room and internally began pulling up everything he had learned about PTSD symptoms, but nothing he had mentioned erotic behaviors. It was obvious John had been intimate, but with whom? Texting Lestrade, he did what he never planned on doing and begged out of a case and then asking for Gregory's help by way of bringing a rape kit to John's address.

Making the tea, he also made light toast and scoured for some jam and was pleased at finding some in the refrigerator. By then Lestrade had texted him back stating only 18 min ETA. Ok, good. He would get this sorted for John.

“John, tea?” Bringing in the tray he set it beside the other man and came around, took off his shoes and sat beside the doctor.

“Yes, please, could you pour? So how are you feeling this morning?”

John could sense that Sherlock was very concerned. Maybe nerves, this was new to him as well. This type of relationship, felt committed. Almost like it was unbreakable.

“I am fine. I have a case I wanted to invite you along for after I feed you something. DI Lestrade is coming by shortly with a few things we are going to need.”

 

“Sure love, whatever we need.” Leaning over toward Sherlock, he picked up his hand and kissed the detectives knuckles. “As to your answer, it's sort of ridiculous. The strongest memory besides us is from the early morning when I woke up with this ridiculous hard-on. Bobbing and all!” 

The doctor was giggling now, and when he saw the detective's response he completely lost it as the tears fell from pure mirth.

“John, I do care about you, but in all honesty please listen. I did not make love to you last night. We walked to your doorstep. You came up here by yourself. I only broke in this morning because I couldn't raise you on your mobile and I was impatient because I really needed you on a case. Today is the eighth.”

“Ok, smart arse, smell me.”

“What?!?” Sherlock was completely taken by surprise with this response.

The doctor sighed. Looking up, he smiled once again and repeated, “Smell me Sherlock. I smell only of you. You even overpowered my normal base pheromone level. Come now, you must notice it?”

Steeling himself, he moved the tray toward the foot of the bed, leaned into John's neck and inhaled deeply. His eyes flew wide, but he did not leave John's proximity.

“John, we have a large mystery on our hands.” The chime rang. Sherlock rose to allow the DI up to the flat. “Stay put and finish your tea alright?”

Lestrade was upstairs shortly, Sherlock allowed him in and quietly discussed the situation. He knew the DI was concerned for Sherlock's safety so he agreed to let him meet John on the promise to not further hurt the man if he was emotionally compromised or fragile.

“Sherlock, come sit beside me please.” He sighed, and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair as soon as the detective sat down on the covers. “I suppose we do then, have a mystery that is. Is that why you asked for the kit from Lestrade?”

“Yes it is John. Could we do this? Do you trust me?” Of course John heard. He was so much more than average and Sherlock needed to treat him as such, as the extraordinary person he was proving to be.

 

“Sherlock I do, implicitly. Lestrade, I'm not really modest, but could you give my beloved and I a moment so I can prove to him that I was not forced and that I am in my right mind?”

“Um, sure, I'll be in the kitchen then, yea? Sherlock, behave.”

Sherlock very tactfully took what was necessary for the kit. Swabbing John's inner cheek, mouth, neck. Continuing, he lowered the covers once again as John lay himself prone on the bed, swabbing his thigh then a realization hit him full stop.

“John, are you sure you are alright? Could you roll over for me?”

John wordlessly rolled to his stomach, trying to physically show the man he loved that he trusted him implicitly. With the movement, the detective swabbed his buttocks where the bite marks were apparent then very gingerly spread the doctor just enough to swab his anus. Honestly, it was easy for him, but John looked like a crime-scene.

It made his heart ache for John to have been used in this way, and the fact that he now equated this to Sherlock, that he thought that Sherlock would ever be this harsh with him there was no word to describe what he felt. Patting John to let him know he was free to roll back over, he finished putting those samples away while pulling out the rest of the kit.

“John can you tell me what was said? Was there anything that really stood-out?” Sherlock allowed his defenses down just enough for John to see he was being genuine, “Please think my friend.”  
Taking John's hand in his, he scraped under his nails, added those to the kit, finishing. He would not worry over the rest. The residual DNA should be more than enough.

“You called me Hamish, my middle name, the most. Almost reverently, like you were the only one allowed to call me by that name in a possessive fashion. That it was very private between us, for only us. Does this make any sense?”

Placing everything away and locking the kit, he turned to John. Taking his friend into a hug, he did not know what to say. His mind was on some strange loopy haze, not able to piece things properly. “It might very soon. I think your identification and this might be part of something larger, I just need to get to Bart's to process this.”

“I'm coming with. Let me shower and dress, I'll be out in 10.”

 

Before Sherlock could stop him, John pressed forward and kissed him sincerely. Then the doctor was up and in the shower in a flash decrying the initial stream of cool water on his ruffled body. He washed at military speed, dressed with the same care as yesterday just swiftly then ran a towel over his head, dropped it in the hamper and went out to meet the other two in his living room.

That was when the world fell out from underneath a certain John H. Watson and he collapsed.

 

Of Memories

John was pulled roughly awake through the salts he kept under the kitchen sink in his crash-kit. He knew not to move much and to let the rest of him catch up to reality. Sherlock was on the floor with him, Lestrade had taken a knee as well in case the other two needed a hand pulling John up off the floor.

“The rug, bookcases, Cenwyn, Absolom? Gods, our piano, where is everything?” 

Clamoring to his knees and then swiftly assisted to his feet he dashed into the kitchen and threw up everything he had ate for breakfast. Sherlock came up behind him and put a hand gently in the middle of his shoulder blades. The doctor began heaving again, now from shock. When that wave passed there were tears unchecked on his face as he remained looking into his sink. Pressing down on the cold foot control for the water, he rinsed his mouth out. Turning into Sherlock he sobbed.

“Shh, my friend, my doctor, I promise you we will get to the bottom of this for you.”

Lestrade stepped closer and pulled one of the two chairs from the side of the little table in the center of the room. He was now thoroughly confused, and that almost never really happened. He was tempted to make Mycroft aware of what was going on, but he would tell him tonight, not now with no answers.

“Doctor Watson, may I call you John?” When the doctor assented with his head, he continued, “What is it exactly that is missing again from your living room? It looks as if you are just getting settled here.”

 

“In reality, nothing. In whatever place that Sherlock and I were in, our bookcases, all the clutter in them, our skulls, my medical journals, our piano, the rug we bought at a Parisian flea market...Oh my God.” 

He pushed himself out of Sherlock's arms as a whole new wave of nausea hit him just as hard as the first. 

“Sherlock, I told you I was haunted...what if...” 

Dry-heaving now, he began to go into shock.

“John, stay with me. Do not pass back out. I am here. Let's get to Bart's.”

Pushing John up, he slid his arm under to help support him. He made sure that Lestrade grabbed John's mobile, wallet, and keys before they turned the kettle off and locked the flat up. By then the doctor was beginning to do mildly better, he just remained very quiet and extremely close to Sherlock. In reality, this did not bother the detective as much as he thought it would. At this point he was more worried about a real chance of John going into shock and possibly placing Sherlock on some sort of trigger list which would honestly upset him. Slightly baffling, but true nonetheless.

When they reached Bart's John was determined. Grabbing Sherlock's hand and lacing their fingers, he pulled the detective toward the lab. He had an idea of what was going on now and wanted proof. No matter how improbable it might be, when all else is gone, what remained was true.

“Morning Molly, Sherlock and I need your help. We need to go through this kit, and I mean to the bloody level of the quantum energy within the cells if we have to. Could you help us please?”

Molly was completely taken aback at the fervor in John's eyes, but she agreed to help. “Do you know the person John? Your sister?” She genuinely hoped not. “You two look fired up today. Want some coffee to help the nerves?”

“Oh my god, yes please. Thank you Molly.”

As she left the room, it left the three men. John felt as if he owed Lestrade some sort of an explanation, but couldn't bring himself to do it. He began prepping pulling slides and other miscellany they would need.  
“Well, lets get to it. Sherlock, I need a DNA sample from you as well.”

“Anything John. Let's do this.”

“Lestrade, there really isn’t much to be done here, but the three of us and lab work. Want to come back by and we will talk over lunch?” John made it sound more of a directive than question. Gregory liked the man. He knew Molly would be there to keep an eye on Sherlock, so he could be freed to go into the Met.

“Alright, boys.” The DI tentatively smiled. “But doctor, know this, if you muck about and hurt this young man in some way you’ve got me to deal with yea?”

They worked closely in concert with one another most of the day.

Sherlock had Thai delivered for lunch, in the hopes of making sure John ate. All of this was taxing the both of them and the beginnings of their friendship had been spun into the cosmos, now they would never know how it should have played out because everything would be different from here. 

As they nibbled and shared off of one another’s plates and drank bad coffee he began to wonder if maybe there was such a thing as soul mates or reincarnation.

They knew scientifically that all of our inner being, our soul resided within a quantum state. Much like bee's, a person's soul was very similar. Constantly bending and warping what we currently perceive as time to our wills at such a molecular level it allowed some to be considered genius, other adepts, empathic. It was really all down to the science. So if bees could fly even though there was no reason, then why did time have to exist? Why couldn't someone reincarnate? Possibly haunt a person or area?

“If you and I are soul mates, our quantum resonance would call to one another.”

John looked up from his noodles, finished his mouthful, and looked hard at Sherlock. The doctor was really trying to follow the thin line of thoughts he could still see behind his friend's eyes to see why he went down that particular trail. Close to the same processes he had been exercising all day, there wasn't another viable answer. This, though, brought so many more questions.

“Ok, Sherlock. I'm around the edges of the idea, give me the middle.”

“An American, Dr. Hameroff, as well as Sir Roger Penrose have been working on a theory since 1996. They argue that our experience of consciousness is the result of quantum gravity effects inside a process they call orchestrated objective reduction. In a near-death experience the micro-tubules lose their quantum state but the information within them is not destroyed. Or in layman's terms, the soul does not die but returns to the universe.”

“Brilliant. So where does resonating play into it?”

“Resonance occurs when a system is able to store and easily transfer energy between two or more different storage modes correct? This means there is some damping from cycle to cycle. When damping is small, the resonant frequency is approximately equal to the natural frequency of the system. Some systems have multiple, distinct, resonant frequencies. If you think about it, that is what our souls are. We are pieces of the universe that resonate toward one another because we can complete an infinitesimal piece of what we understand as infinity John. We are intertwined on a quantum level. Soul mates.”

John stopped. 

Looking into the younger man's eyes, he had seen forever under the hopeful lens of a lover, but now the full force of the last twenty four hours hit him like an EMP. Keeping his flesh intact, but rendering the rest unusable for a bit. Dropping his fork into the take-a-way, John took a drink of the horrid coffee then made his way around the lab table they are eating at.  
Sherlock just followed him, looking mystified and full of wonder, as if by speaking it aloud, the detective would sever this version of reality. 

Maybe he would. 

Things were progressively becoming flux, spatially challenged. Sherlock could finally feel the pull that John had felt the previous night, but had not yet recognized. The detective picked him up and sat him on the table so they could see eye to eye. Wrapping the doctor in his lithe arms Sherlock breathed in the wonderful bergamot and cinnamon scent in his doctor's hair.

“Told you I was yours.”

“We haven't proven this yet; it could be completely erroneous.”

“Even if the theory proves false, I am still yours Sherlock, for as long as you will have me.” 

Admiring the man before him, John tangled his fingers tightly into Sherlock's hair kissing him with the full depth of what had come to be within him. The doctor knew he had been with this man. If it was an earlier Victorian version, so be it. This Sherlock was his as his permutation of himself belonged to Sherlock.

Only they could resonate, harmonize, call to one another.

Molly came in and gasped.

She was more than slightly shocked, but miffed as well. Yes, Sherlock was afforded much leeway, but seducing John down here was just unconscionable. John knew better as well, that rogue. Looking pointedly at the two gentlemen, she spoke sternly, “Well when you two knaves are done seducing one another, could we go over the results?” 

They had broken away at the sound of the gasp, but had remained looking at one another. Then Molly spoke, no commanded. They burst out in laughter, John leaning on Sherlock's shoulder with the detective's arm still around him.

“Yes, Molly?” Sherlock asked, looking at the small woman, “Give us the news, please. John, be serious.”

“I am sorry, Molly. Yes. Thank you. What is the word so far?” John was contrite and schooled himself properly. Dropping from the table he stood beside Sherlock.

“Well. I don’t exactly know how to feel John. First, why didn't you tell me this was your kit?”

“I, well, I don't have an answer to that.”

“Well you should.” Tears welled shining, but she refused to let them fall. “You two should have told me this was yours John. Sherlock, you know better. Who did this to him? Your brother? It's someone in your family that is for certain. Could almost be your twin. I am so damned angry at the two of you right now.”

“Mol-”

“No. Shut it! Sherlock, not one word so help me.” She steeled herself again and tried to recompose herself a smidge. “John, are you alright?”

“Well and truly, Molly. Well and truly.” Walking over toward the willowy bright woman John enveloped her in a hug. “It's all fine Molly Anne. Well and truly fine.”

“Your middle name is Anne? Hm, interesting...” Sherlock quipped a grin in agreeance of the name, “Irrelevant for the moment though. In my family you said?”

“Yes, Sherlock, your family. You...stupid...arse!” Walking the four steps to the taller man swiftly, she reached up and slapped him, the point of contact immediately blushing a bright pink. 

“And I am not sorry for that. What the bless is going on? Tell me right now, or I will call Lestrade this instant.”

The two men looked at each other. It wasn't quite the answer they had been looking for, but it gave them a place to start.

“Ok, this morning I woke up, ahem, very well, aroused an-”

“Christ John! You shut your mouth right now! I do not want to-”

“Molly, please listen, please?” John sighed and resigned himself to sheer embarrassment. 

“You want to know, I will sanitize, but I'm not going to lie.” Sitting once again on the table, he clasped his hands in his lap so he wouldn't fidget. “Best way to put it Molly is that I wasn't taken forcefully, and I believed it to be Sherlock.”

The coroner shivered, she was still not comfortable with this and shared a look with Sherlock. They both looked resolutely at one another.

“So Sherlock, anything to add?”

“I want to measure the quantitative state; as does John as he mentioned it to you even as I do now.”

“What?” 

Throwing her hand in the air in a show of utter exasperation, she was confused once again. 

 

“Look; could we all go grab a bite? I know you were in the middle of take-away, but I need real food and a whole hell of a lot of good wine in me. Invite Mike, he's cute and would most likely help you both with this mad situation. I'm grabbing my things and I'll be right back.”

Walking into the corridor, she stopped and put her back against the wall and took a deep breath. Molly could not make sense of anything that she had seen. Them kissing? The data that had been tested three times over now. She knew Sherlock would want to test the results as well, just to go through the motions if anything else, but this was just bonkers. 

There is no way that John would allow this type of treatment, being used as a sex toy. That was the only answer she had at the moment and she sure as hell didn’t accept it. Those two had better have a blessedly good reason for her results to be the way they were.

Why was Sherlock curious about the quantum state of the samples? 

That also rattled her. 

What were they expecting to find?

It was Sherlock, and he could choose to be an idiot at times, but this just did not add up. He'd have to go back and call a favor of his old Uni prof's just to maybe get a chance to do something on that scale.

Exhaling, she made her way to her office to collect her things. For all her ruminating, she could do it while she was walking and not be rude enough to make them wait. Jogging up the steps, she entered, grabbed her pullover and coat, slung her messenger bag around her turned and exited the room locking the door on her way out.

Molly walked back down toward the lab but a chill hit her forcing her to a full stop. Looking over her shoulder, she saw nothing; shivering she tried to throw it out of her ramblings and get to the gentlemen waiting for her. Then the lights went out. Bathed in true darkness, she heard the familiar click of a certain pair of shoes. This was not the time to be funny with her, she was already cross.

“Sherlock. This is nonsense.” She stated into the darkness. “What in Hades are you doing? Where is John?”

“There is little time so I need you to silence yourself and hear me, please little one.”

“Alright, but who are you?” This was not Sherlock, not the man she knew.

“It is not surprising that you do not recognize this vocal pattern, but it is I all the same. You must hear me now when I say this: You must, at all costs, keep those two safe. Do you understand?”

“If you mean John and Sherlock in the lab then yes, I suppose.”

“Good.”

Three breaths later, the lights came back on.

Seven, and she was wild eyed in the arms of John Watson.

“I still do not understand what happened Sherlock! To Hades with all of this!” Slamming both fists on the counter, she was fuming. She could not believe that she ran like a ninny and to top it off ended up in the arms of a man like a helpless fairy princess. “I am so very sorry John; I shouldn't have taken the liberty...”

“Molly, it's all good. Walk us through what happened yea?”

Taking a stabilizing breath, she motioned for them to follow her to the corridor before walking out herself and holding the door. Sherlock took John's hand as they left the laboratories, he was still leery of the events of today, and poor Molly had only made his anxiety come close to surfacing. He had to rein it all back together quickly and efficiently.

“Ok, I was about here,” She stopped and waited for them halfway into the long corridor. “All the lights went out; and a second, maybe two seconds later I swore I heard you walking towards me Sherlock. It was the same sound, gait of the person. He never touched me. Just said he wasn't surprised I didn't recognize his voice and that I needed to keep you two safe.”

“Really? What were the exact words?” Sherlock was leery of all of this. It is one thing for John to go through something, but Molly now as well? Were they connected? Improbable.

“You must hear me now when I say this: You must, at all costs, keep those two safe. Do you understand?” she stated unwaveringly. “Then I said if he was speaking of the two of you, then yes. To which the reply was 'Good' and then nothing. The lights came back on and I was alone.”

“Interesting choice of words, don't you think John?” The detective glanced at the doctor. 

“What do you make of it?”

“Sherlock, I don't know. You know how I feel.” Entwining their fingers once again he met Sherlock's gaze. “Whatever this is, we will do this together.”

“Then let's go to feed up our little Molly Anne in repayment for the clinical help and the fright she received; both on our behalf.”

“Yes please! Maybe I can coax Mike to come keep me safe tonight!”

“Debauchery, Mol! Are we rubbing off on you already?”

“Well the little scene you two created, all cozy on that table, certainly didn’t help a girl, now did it! Next time, lock yourselves in the broom closet!”

The three depart, lightening through their laughter, toward the exit and finally into the evening air heading to the dim-sum restaurant not far away.

 

Interlude

 

They finally had made it back to John’s flat.

Emotionally and physically exhausted, he just wanted the warmth of his bed. Sherlock was with him though. He hadn’t wanted to leave John’s side since this began earlier today.  
That was just fine with him.

He had been silent on the way home, brooding and then drifted into sleep in the cab. When John awoke by Sherlock’s kind hand across his cheek it had startled and unsettled him. How could he deserve this soul that in another place he had just damned. He would spend every waking hour protecting the person, which under all rational circumspection, should not be knit to him in the manner he already was.

It was terrifying and affirming to know he would, this very instant die for the man beside him. The slight tremor was visible as he clasped his lover’s right hand in his left and wordlessly led him upstairs, entering his space. Pulling him easily into a chaste kiss. 

Grazing back down to Sherlock’s hand, he clasped it and headed toward his bedroom. The detective hesitantly followed with a look of surprise on his face. He walked him the nineteen steps to his bedroom door, the seven steps to his bed and sat at the edge of his bed. It had been a very bitter pill to swallow, that John had not only lost a day, but that two very intimate encounters never had happened in this space of time. He was reeling from the hole that was trying to set up a permanent home where his heart had once re-bloomed.

“Sherlock, stay tonight.”

He was so hesitant to ask this of his would be lover; John had no idea where their boundaries would lie. He had been compromised emotionally on god knows how many levels in twenty four short hours the doctor did not even know if it was appropriate to ask. They next time he awoke, who knows where he would be. What if he had a waking nightmare? Would Sherlock even be safe?

John knew he needed someone to stay with him.

“Will it be dangerous?”

“Oh, most likely. I do have nightmares.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“Oh, an experiment then, am I?”

“No John, an adventure. You are a rare and dangerous creature to have enthralled me enough to apparently try to transcend time to keep us together.”

“Sherlock, it is understandable if you do not want this, and just know that it is fine if you do not. I’ll stop whenever you want, all you have to do is tell me no. All you have to do if you want is ask, and I will give.”

 

As with all grand statements, John took a knee. He was full to the seam with noble intent and wanted the weight of his words to settle into every hidden place. Running his finger down Sherlock’s face reassuringly, holding his chin, the doctor pulled him forward into his lips. Warm and swiftly becoming very familiar to him, he smiled into the kiss tilting, asking permission to explore. He was alright with just doing this all night if it meant having Sherlock next to him in his bed.

“I've gained and lost so very much today.”

“Us?”

“Yes.”

“John, our course is altered. I cannot foresee what we could have been or where we would be now if not for any of this. I understand.”

“No, Sherlock, you don't.” John took a deep breath and forced it away again.

Bringing his other hand up, the doctor trailed it into Sherlock’s hair, locking it in place and taking full control of their liaison. The detective wordlessly answered, using his breathlessness to speak for him. 

John released his hands from Sherlock’s face continuing the kiss and moved to undo the younger man’s shoes. Pulling them away one after the other he disengaged hastily, removed his own then pushed Sherlock back further until his back was up against the footboard ravishing him again to breathlessness.John straddled him as he wrapped his arms around the wiry man, pressing full up against Sherlock, allowing him to feel the doctor’s weight, his stability.

“No, I don’t think you do. You’re ingrained in me. I can’t not want you...”

There was something distinctly alpha male that was rising to John’s conscience, and he enjoyed the melody it was pulling from him wrapping around what he already considered their composition. He would have to score it one day soon for the both of them. Taking deeply from his lover, he began a true exploration of the man he was seducing.

The texture of the younger man was intoxicating. 

He was very skillful with his tongue, enjoyed the heated playfulness as he tasted coffee, caramel, salt, tobacco; everything that made Sherlock himself. Sucking on his lovers tongue rewarded him with a deep chuckle moving through the both of them. Teasing Sherlock’s hair in his hands he inhaled the air out of the younger man’s lungs and then exhaled. 

“I’m here, John.”

John breathed for the both of them sending a vicious shiver down his lover who gave fully trusting the doctor’s susurrations allowing him to extend the breath play. After a few moments, he gently broke from his lover’s lips dipping to nibble the pulse point by Sherlock’s jaw line moving up slightly to the soft dip behind his ear. 

The detective’s hands dug into John’s ribs as a moan elicited causing him to smile wickedly into his ministrations knowing that he, John Hamish Watson, was bringing Sherlock to his metaphoric knees.

“Yes. Sherlock.”

A statement, not a question.

He knew the man he was straddling was a twin to the dark star residing within him. The magnetism was unholy, all consuming and incredible. They were beyond needing words when this was so much more eloquent. The detective’s hands were lithe and strong. All the years of the violin, possibly piano, working towards unraveling John fingerprint by fingerprint. They were searing his skin through his clothing, he needed to feel Sherlock, feel their bodies not the fabric between them.

John ripped his hands away from Sherlock, yanking at the younger man’s bespoke shirt giving nary a care as it tore and buttons went as long as he could feel the flesh beneath. Pulling roughly, he helped to remove the shirt quickly. Sherlock had already been at work with the doctor’s shirt and was removing it much more casually to John’s chagrin.

“I do not think you fully understand, my brilliant friend.” As he allowed himself to be engulfed by the darkest depths of his wounded heart, he took Sherlock’s wrist looking heatedly at the man before him. John pulled Sherlock up beside him, laying him onto his bed. 

 

Sherlock reacted the instant John’s mouth met his skin growling fisting John’s short hair tightly. Grinding his chin into the soft flesh John reached the closure and pulled on the fabric loosing it then began nibbling mercilessly at the sensitive flesh before pulling down the fabric with his teeth. Kissing only the soft milky flesh, only what was offered. Working the clothes off with his hands, he let them drop and pool on the floor.

John moved up beside his lover they righted themselves better on the bed. Capturing Sherlock with another kiss, he cataloged how they feel together. Barely touching he can feel the heat with every movement. Rolling Sherlock over, John began kissing his lover's neck and shoulders, finally tracing his spine and ribs in feather light kisses. Licking and biting into his coccyx before skimming along his hips.

“You...are...so...blessedly...beautiful underneath me.” John flipped Sherlock back over taking his reddened lips claiming them once again before starting down the detective’s chest with the same fervor he had shown just moments ago. Working down, licking and tasting; biting his lover’s nipples, eliciting more than moans that were harmonies to John’s emotions that he spilled over the beautiful creature beneath him.

Yanking the detectives arm above his head, he pinned it to the mattress in a steel grip.  
Moving his face slowly down, listening to Sherlock’s frantic breath and words that were falling from his mouth, John flattened his tongue and starting at the side of his lover’s pectoral muscle licked upward tasting the salt, sky, winter morning mix of pheromones, nipping then licking Sherlock’s dark sparse hair, listening to the man cry out in desperation from the sensitivity of an area so seldom touched. 

John kissed the area chastely then, then loosed his grip as he continued his way down sweetly Sherlock’s side he curved when he came to his hip, crossed over his lover’s body and followed the natural shallow valley to the dense furl of darkened deep auburn nest that awaited him.

Pressing gently with his nose, he scouted, learning Sherlock’s base scent. It was marvelous, woodsy like crisp air and crushed leaves. Running his hand up Sherlock’s body he pressed to him as he brought his mouth to the blessed cock he had been working around. Taking it into his mouth for a few languorous strokes, Sherlock curled around him as John pulled them onto their sides so he could get a better supportive angle and rest on his right shoulder.

“Sherlock... Love.”

John was able to rasp out so consumed with the feeling of them intertwined. Everything had become white noise to John, everything was only this time. Now. Here and present with his Sherlock. Dipping his tongue into his lover’s foreskin, he worked it around his glans and suckled it into his warm mouth driving Sherlock to begin to crest into an orgasm.  
He immediately backed off and pressed very firmly into Sherlock’s perineum to the point he knew it was almost painful. 

He had caught his lover in time and allowed him to ride the orgasm ripping through him without ejaculating. As soon as he could see it lessening he repeated the same motions again, this time taking Sherlock more fully into his mouth until he became undone. Again John backed off, allowing him the pleasure of cresting so he could ride the tide with him. 

At last, he took him into his mouth for a final time, taking himself to hand as well, working Sherlock even higher. John registered the man crying his name over and over as a litany. Nothing could have broken John other than that and he welled up, allowing his tears to flow freely. With the full force everything between them John came, continuing to work Sherlock wholeheartedly until he climaxed as well.

John brought himself up Sherlock’s body, kissing Sherlock’s cheek before collapsing half on him. Gods, this man was wondrous. All wire, movement, unsure grace when not guarded. John knew already that he was in trouble, that all of this was too perfect, yet he could not deny a single emotion or word.

“John?” Sherlock asked tentatively, “thank you.”

Nuzzling, the doctor quietly laughed for a second into his lover’s neck. He was just content to repay the man he was swiftly becoming bound to with at least a tenth of the joy he felt the night before.

“No thanks necessary. You might want to think about leaving clothes over though at this rate. I do not think we are going to keep off each other.”

“Practical and romantic to a fault you are my doctor. Is this your way of letting me know I can encroach on your territory?” Kissing John’s brow, he raised his hand and ruffled the sandy hair. “I think that the possibility of us living together in multiple lifetimes gave it to me already.”

“I actually have a theory about that.” John began, “I don’t think we are ever exactly the same. Maybe certain facets come out and change every time we meet, but the core stays the same so that we might still be able to resonate. You are my Sherlock and I am your John. The others would recognize us as, well, us. Their counterpart, just slightly varied?”

“Well, if that is true John, then why did I take you the way you were? So rough, it hurts my heart…I don’t want it to have been be me who did that.”

“Sherlock. It was wonderful, and I am almost certain there will be plenty of fire in this relationship. My body recognized it. I recognized it. As to why, I think I might know, but it saddened me when I got to really thinking about it.”

“I had lost you.”

“Yes, I believe so.” John continued. “He, you, said it had been so long. Too long.”

“How old?” The detective demanded suddenly; steeling himself for the answer, his arms reflexively tightening around his doctor.

“Sherlock…”

“How old, Hamish, please.”

That was what cemented it really. The use of his name, the need, the automatic use as if it had fallen from Sherlock’s lips as a plea a million times before. He was already emotionally undone with all of the last day and a half it was no wonder the tears fell bitterly and swiftly. 

Not anymore.

“Maybe fifty…maybe.”

“No!” The detective bound out of the bed and began pacing. “I will not have this. I cannot only have you beside me for less than twenty years John. I cannot do it and I won’t.”

“I’d be close to sixty. It could be natural causes. It could be a disillusion between us. I might have still been alive, maybe unreachable…” He stated all this hoping to calm the madman whose heart was being torn out at something that hadn’t even happened yet to them. 

 

“Things were very different then, Sherlock. People were not open like we are now; this is Victorian London we are speaking of.”

“No. If my other-self felt even a tenth of what I have barely begun to harbor for you, it could only be death.”

Throwing John’s robe on, he left the bedroom in a brooding state. Putting the kettle on, he sat at the small table going through possible permutations of what and how. He had left himself an obvious clue with Molly, now he needed to follow the string to its origin. When he came back to himself, John was standing across from him sipping tea in an old uni t-shirt looking at him as if he could hear the trail of the detectives thoughts.

“I was wondering the same thing. If the warning maybe was more a show to make us aware, especially as how I’ve been intimate with you both. Maybe that version wants to see us old and grey because he cannot.”

Placing a fresh mug in front of the detective he comfortingly patted his hand.

“Look, I am here now, and so are you, my love. Our lives are already vastly different and altered just by the quasi-knowledge we have at this very second. You can’t argue that fact.”

“But twenty, on the outside John, if we are lucky, of course yes more. Please, God yes. What if not? What if we’ve altered something and I lose you sooner?”

“That is a risk we were taking every day up until we met. I almost died out there, Sherlock, they had to revive me twice…oh Gods…” John sat down on the opposite chair trying to breathe. His throat shut momentarily at the memory.

He remembered.

“Sherlock, take me to bed.”

It was not a request, and the detective knew it. He would do whatever was necessary from this moment even if he hated it. How could he deny anything knowing he could pinpoint the day the love of his life died.

Once settled, John was spooned yet again by the younger man; he began explaining what had happened the day he was wounded. It was so very hard to tell and took most of the rest of the night. When John explained about what had happened and how he had been revived, he also explained about the vision he had. Going further he linked the two together.

“Those two were you, as you are now, I know it. I can’t tell you your age, you never let me see your face. Maybe you figure something out very soon and start hinking around with our timeline, I don’t know. You brought me back to you Sherlock, do you realize that?” Taking a deep breath, he hoped that this would settle his lover’s fears for at least the time being until they had more information.

“I do not know, beloved. If I could find a way to save you from harm I would; it rings true to me. I just hope it is a joint decision that we make in the future together. Rest now. We both need sleep, as much as I am loathe to admit it. When we wake, I’ll take you to a marvelous breakfast and you can meet my brother.”

 

July 1891  
221 B Baker Street

9th, July 1891

The parlor was darkened, only the grate and one gas lamp glowing.

The heavy brocade curtains were roped so that the sheer silk filtered in moonglow and London night. He stood with his hand on the wide backed chair fiddling with the seam line, masticating the most recent discoveries that had come to purpose.

“Billy, why must this be this way?”

The quiet in the room persisted.

“Really, do you have to become dispirited as well? Answer me.”

Sherlock listened intently with his inner-ear cocked toward the skull of the aged hackney driver that he had once known so very well.

“You’d run us all ways and upside down jawing about, now you choose to not have at least one small word of kindness?” The detective entreated his old friend, lovingly picking him off his favored position of the mantle and carried him about the room.

“I know only what I can prove. Yes, this is true. I need our Watson here. I need to call him home…maybe Tesla could help in our endeavor hmm?”

His eyes alight now, he quickly ran out of the sitting room and pounced up the stairwell practically breaking down the doctor’s door in jubilation, the detective could not wait to share the new fission that had occurred that would lead them to the hopeful conclusion they both desired.

Opening the door to his chambers, the room was dim and cold.

Wrapped in those few moments, the frail brilliant philosopher scientist had forgotten the most basic rule of life; all hearts do stop. Losing all gale force, the wind left his sails choosing to sit at the foot of their double bed; well, what became theirs before Watson’s passing. 

Placing Absolom on the small bedside table, he laid himself on his old pillow caressing the hollow left on the mattress where his dearest used to slumber.

 

“There is no prospect of danger, or I should not dream of stirring out without you, my dearest friend.”

Alone, and kicked back into the bleak reality of his waking hours, Sherlock chose to wane and mourn now instead.

Heat.

 

Unbearable, insufferable.

 

Too frantic.

 

No. Not right.

 

Home.

 

“Hamish, you are here.”

The younger man looked upon him with a wanton gaze, heating him, reminding him of the deserts his once love spoke of in guarded moments in the depths of night. Ebony shadows played along the walls that were too sparse. His lover, much too thin, lacking the care Holmes had once given him, feeding him up to a healthy weight after the last return from his sojourn to train the newest military doctors’ modern techniques on the field.

Yet Watson’s eyes were just as haunted, almost newly so.

“I’ve missed you, but you have only left me to my own means, you brash knave!”

 

Looking at the man with desperation clawing its way through the steely self possession, his manners frayed, lost to another time as he reached through the distance and clasped the man before him roughly by both arms his eyes openly glittering with a wild mirth.

“I am not your Watson, but an echo, my lover. Still, I would have you Holmes.”

“How can this be?”

Wonder infused the older man’s voice clearly entertained by the idea that there were several different permutations of Holmes’ and Watsons’ flying about in an ether realm.

“We do not really know quite yet, but I want to tell you that I have always loved you. In case I had not before I left you. I am sorry; I did not mean to die.”

“One never does Watson; one always thinks one will die old and frail. And I might, as yet. The Game is beginning to no longer matter without you by my side.”

The silvery-blonde wrapped his arms around the harshly stunning man before him embracing him tightly as his lips sought and met the others. As John laid his head over Holmes heart, he heard it stutter.

Cocaine.

It was legal here, in this time.

“I know why I’m here now. Care to have a lie down, dearest friend?”

John knew that he could flirt gently with this version of his ever-lover and would try to ease his passing if he could.

“You know you’ve gone and done it this time. I cannot bring you back from where you are going without me. I have gone before and now you follow, leaving me behind again.”

Holding the man gently, he captures his lips yet again, arranging them comfortably on the bed. Ruffling Holmes’ hair, he allowed himself to explore serenely accommodating the decorum of the time in which they were. John found himself praying he could lull him to sleep and then overdose him completely so he would not be in agony for the hours that the doctor was not there before death.

“Yes, I have. Must not have allowed myself to realize, always looking for the next great adventure and all. Go ahead Hamish; I know what has to be done. It would not do for me to have our marks of passion once one is found alone and you already buried this last fortnight.”

Sitting up, John opened the drawer in the bedside table and prepared the syringe pulling out the small vial of vinegar, the cocaine, and the swabs he set to his grim work.

“I do love you. I am just damned to hell no matter what it seems. I always lose you Sherlock, I don’t want to anymore. My heart, though vast, is so full of love and longing I fear I will break from it.”

“Do not break upon me ever again dearest Hamish. Throw me into yourself instead; do this for us, my only, truest friend.”

John trying not to think upon what was to come, instead yanking his belt, using it as the tourniquet on his lovers arm he prepped the site quickly.

“Christ…I need you to hear and know that I love you now and for all times Sherlock. Never ever part this way again, I am only sorry that I could not protect you this time.”

With that he pushed the plunger releasing the lethal dose.

“Hamish…”

Bending over, he kisses the lips of the soon to be corpse.

Today was a very bad day.

 

2010  
Breakfast at Diogenes  
9, Jul 2010 1058 

In the morning, it was John who woke first.

He was curled into Sherlock’s side, his head rested on the other’s shoulder.

No nightmares.

Smiling somewhat blissfully, he began toying with Sherlock’s hair. Pulling on the ends by his left ear he lets them furl and slightly spring enjoying the texture of the dark hair.

“Morning beloved,” the detective said softly, enjoying the petting. “No nightmares then?”

“No, not one. You might just have to sleep with me all the time.”

“Well, I will state that the warmth is highly agreeable.”

Turning over towards John, he softly rubs his lips against the doctor’s brow. Opening his eyes, he genuinely smiled at the man beside him.

“Good morning,” he laughed, pressing into John’s stomach. Pulling the shorter man up to hip level he grinded against him loosely while tucking in to whisper into John’s ear, he breathes mischievously. “Feels as if it’s going to be brilliant; are you sure you wish to be introduced as my lover this morning? Couldn’t we make him wait until tea?”

“You, my lover, are insatiable.” Giggling as he reaches for his mobile to check who had texted. “No, we aren’t getting out of this, look at what Mycroft has sent me.”

Are you two done playing happy families at the moment? – MH

Should one expect a happy announcement soon? -MH

“Oh mummy is going to have a field day with all of this.” 

 

Sherlock was grinning from ear to ear like the cat that had stolen the cream. Rolling John to his stomach in jest, he gave his lover a good smack, laughing then pinning him, he began biting swiftly down his back. 

“Come, let me have you, my Hamish, good and proper!”

“Sherlock Holmes! We do not have time for this! We are not in Uni!” 

John tried desperately to rein in the situation, but he knew already that he was going to lose. 

“At least let me text your brother, so he may re-arrange!” 

The doctor’s fingers flew furiously sending off the text in record time, even though one of his hands had been commandeered and pinned.

“I am not 19 Sherlock!” Still protesting, he began to squirm under his lover’s attention. It was relentless. He realized too late that Sherlock had caught up his other hand and had used his robe tie to try to subdue him. “I will get you for this young man. Just you wait!”

“Young man, hmm?” The detective was holding John’s hips now as he dipped and kneeing his way between his beloveds legs and licked a wide swathe from his inner thigh straight up past his cleft causing the doctor to squeal.

“Yes. I mean it. I am ticklish and I will get you somehow if you make me piss the bed!”

“Ah, a challenge then!”

With that Sherlock sets off licking and nipping everywhere, finding the most sensitive of spots leaving John completely dying in fits of laughter and mock anger. His favorite was the spot on his lover’s right shoulder blade, just on the very end. It brought his doctor to heel so quickly, he begged the detective to stop, but Sherlock was relentless.

“Oh, I’ll stop Hamish, but you have to yield.”

“Nope. I’m just going to have to get rough. Prepare yourself.”

Sherlock may have been taller, but John’s shorter stature belied his strength. He had trained for years, even before the military. It had been all fun and game, but it was time to show the detective that there was more to himself than a squealing git.

Yanking hard to his left, he tumbled Sherlock messily to the other side of the bed. Rolling hard to top the detective he laughed roughly while straddling the wide eyed madman beneath him. Licking then biting his lips suggestively, he grinded into Sherlock ruthlessly right as the detective regains his composure and rolls John onto his back pinning his arms between himself and the mattress.

“No, Captain. Yield.”

Sherlock used the length of his body to work John. Snaking his hand between them, he palmed the doctor using the heel of his hand to drive the man beneath him wild. Feeling his beloved tense, he moved swiftly taking the weeping cock into his mouth, knowing he is not long for this round.

“Ughn! Bloody hells!” John swore hotly. “Sherlock! You bastard…I swear to Christ Almighty I am going to fuck you straight to oblivion the very next chance I get!”

“Beg, John…”

“No fracking way am I begging for your sweet ass; I’ll be taking, thank you!”

The madman popped off and began lapping instead, trailing the tip of his finger along the underside of the doctor’s raging erection smiling in sheer glee.

“Damn it Sherlock! I wanted to be gentle with you. Just you remember you wanted this later when we finally are together.” John just kept it up hoping that his lover would finish him to stop his mouth from working. “I’m going to stick myself so deep in you and come so fucking hard you’ll taste me for a week.”

That did it, Sherlock was not willing to admit defeat so he decided he’d shut John up in a different manner.

“Ok Hamish, you want me. Take me.”

Flipping around, he took the doctor greedily in his mouth using the opportunity to sink just slightly into his lover’s mouth as well. John accepted happily allowing him to shallowly fuck his mouth as his lover ravaged his cock almost forcing him to come. He was so hard it was just this side of painful. Taking his lover deeper in his mouth now, he writhed his tongue and applied the best amount of friction he could from that position.

Sherlock pulled out of John’s mouth, and flipped to where he could see his beloved’s face and looked deeply into his soul. He was a man possessed. Putting his hand between the mattress and John, he loosed the tie for the doctor’s hands.

He sprung instantly, covering Sherlock holding him down roughly once again.

“You had better tell me right this instant if this is what you want.”

Sherlock was all sex-flush and wantonness. He was need. 

“Yes.”

John stood, quickly traversing to the ensuite, grabbed a glove, condom and lubrication and strode back to the bed with his lovers eyes trained on his bobbling prick.

“Yea, I’m going to shag you to high heaven my love.” Dropping the things beside them, he had already put the glove on. “You are going to be so fucking blissed-out, you’re not going to be able to think for one solid hour.”

Using the surgical lube he coated his fingers well before licking the femoral artery and pressing entrance into Sherlock’s tight heat.

“That’s it, take it. Breathe, I’ll take care of you.”

Sherlock had forgotten what it felt like, it had been so long. Yet with John it was different, he felt free, so he let go. Grinding down on the fingers inside him he growled.

“Yea, see, I have you. Fuck those fingers. Take me in, get ready for me.”

Widening the motion of his fingers to coincide with the grinding of his lover John was transfixed at the younger man’s response. Caressing Sherlock’s hip, be bent and ran his lips along the raised bone following to the hollow before biting relentlessly causing an almost immediate bruise, marking the detective as he added the third finger for good measure wanting his lover fully ready.

Working his way down with his mouth, he took Sherlock lightly into his mouth as he extracted his fingers. Turning the glove inside out as he removed it, he chucked it into the wastebasket by his bedside. Hastening with the condom, he lubricated it as well.

“Here, my love.” Settling against the man below him, “You know you need it as much as I do. Let me fuck you.” Pushing his way in, Sherlock pants against the pressure but John stayed steady. 

Shallowly at first, John worked his way through deeper strokes until Sherlock was incoherent. This was exactly where he wanted the mad man to be. Keeping his hips high, he brought them over his shoulders, taking to his knees to get a good rocking going. Soon enough he was in to the hilt with every thrust, watching Sherlock lose himself.

“Want me to touch you, lover? Want to come for me?” John practically cooed. “You are so tight for me, so hot. Fucking…you are unholy.”

Sherlock reached between them and joined the hand on his saturated cock. Twisting, keeping time with the thrusts, John helped keep it steady until he himself felt the seconds begin to slip.

“John, oh my…” The man below him arched as he came, John needing to switch to holding both of his hips pumping him freely now one, two, three behind; then light and air and cinnamon and coffee…

“Yes, bloody dearest, take me…fuck!”

Finishing, John took a moment before he pulled out. Finally, he quickly pulled the condom off with his right hand, he threw it in the bin before lying with his love. 

“Christ, Sherlock,” he said while he ran his hand through the younger man’s hair, “I fucking bloody well love you. Just so you know.”

“Hmm…” was the only response the doctor gets as he rolled into John’s side and dozes. The doctor, full of liquid warmth decided to doze as well.

Fuck breakfast.

Tea would be fine.

 

Later that afternoon, they met Mycroft at Villandry for an early evening meal. 

 

“My beloved, ready to face the music?” Sherlock laughed toward his doctor. “You do realize the hell we are walking into?”

John just held his hand tighter and kissed his cheek when they stopped at the crossing.

“It will be all fine, lover.”

“I hope so.”

Presently, the two met up with the eldest Holmes sibling, one of which helped bring him back home again. Even better, they were in a nice airy restaurant instead of the men’s club. Smiling at Sherlock’s brother’s glaring reproval, John cleared his throat before beginning the conversation. He never thought anything would be so daunting in all of his life.

“Mycroft, it is so very nice to see you in person again.”

Taking Sherlock’s hand, he held it tightly. Jesus, this was nerve wracking.

“Yes, John, quite. Have you considered the secondary position I offered you during our meeting this Spring, or are you enjoying things at Bart’s?”

“Oh, brother dearest, you know he will stay at Bart’s for no other reason than to be able to see his friends and myself at his leisure.”

“Well, Sherlock, that’s not exactly true now is it, love. There is only one reason I would stay there, well two, but you both already knew that.”

“He does catch on quickly, doesn’t he Shirly?”

“Yes, My, he does.”

“Ok boys, simmer down. Go play swords outside if you have to and I’ll just enjoy my supper like an adult, ta?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Shut it young man.”

Mycroft gave them both a withering stare.

“Do you two gentlemen need a time out? Doctor really, I expected more.”

“Oh, believe me, brother, he has more.”

”I’m sure he does as you have always needed extra handling...”

“Oh sweet Mary. Enough you two or I leave. I’d really like to enjoy our dinner, thank you.”

John really did enjoy the banter, though. It reminded him of the camaraderie he no longer had as a civilian. This felt more like just him and his men joking around in the commons before turning in. For the first time, London began to feel like home again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very much to the beautiful lovely WINTERMINDPALACE for the gorgeous cover art.
> 
> She truly is the best.person.ever.


End file.
